


When the Stars Go Blue

by tobeconquered



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, F/M, Past Child Abuse, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2020-03-29 13:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 105,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19021315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconquered/pseuds/tobeconquered
Summary: "Laughing with your pretty mouthLaughing with your broken eyesLaughing with your lover's tongueIn a lullaby"**Moving from FFN**





	1. Chapter 1

Carson has never known pain like this. Not when they’d all discovered his shame as a man of the stage. Not when Lady Grantham had miscarried the heir. Not even when dear Lady Sybil died.

It isn’t that the pain itself is more intense, it’s that it’s of a different sort. As he watches her there, gently swaying in her simple but elegant frock, it feels like there’s ice gripping his heart, like he’ll never be able to breathe deeply again, like he knows exactly what it is to waste a chance.

Joe’s arms are firm around her, one hand grasping hers (so soft, so delicate) the other at her waist, gripping her slightly (just so, just how he’d like to).

It’s his own fault, really. He’d been too slow. Too harsh and cowardly and obtuse. He hasn’t seen what’s been right in front of him.

When Joe leans in to whisper in her ear, and whatever he says makes her laugh that pretty, tinkling laugh, he’s sure there’s nothing left of the sorry organ that was once his sure and beating heart.

It’s the sort of pain that’s so deep he can’t separate it from himself, can’t get enough objectivity to analyze it fully or even feel it properly. It is now as much a part of him as breathing or blinking; he can no more stop it than he can stop his heart beating.

He hopes, of course, she’s happy now; has gotten what she wanted, what he couldn’t give her - at least not in time.

And, oh, but he is kicking himself, all but tearing himself to shreds internally because he can’t be sure, isn’t one hundred percent positive that there wasn’t something else he could have done; that she’d wanted from him. He can’t quite convince himself that he wasn’t supposed to do or say something when she’d told him of her decision; when she’d gazed at him with that watery smile that didn’t touch her eyes. He has seen those stunning blue eyes dance with mirth, has seen the young maids quirk her lips, Mrs. Patmore make her giggle. He has seen joy in her, at least he thinks he has, and it was conspicuously missing in that moment. It was something that had been missing since. He can’t help but feel he’s missed it, whatever it is, once again, and he can’t bear it -- tries to shake his thoughts away.

But even as Joe pulls her close to him, too close really, for propriety’s sake, for this world she has so gracefully occupied, risen in, so foreign to him and his ruffian ways, and she laughs again, and her tongue pokes out to dampen her lips, there is something broken about it.

His trimmed, clean nails bite into his palm.

He wonders if she will ever let Joe see all of her, really. Not in the biblical sense, because he has no doubt she’ll lay with him; it is possible she already has. Maybe when they were young, maybe then again when he’d waltzed into their lives and stolen her away, but he wonders if his affection will be the balm that soothes whatever hurt this is she’s nursing, whatever it is she’s declined to say. Either way, this man, this rough, farmer’s son, has or will taste her sharp tongue, which is more than he can, will ever, say. And there’s something to be said for that. Something to be said for the wholeness of what she shares with him.

He finds he doesn’t have the energy to feel angry; hasn’t since she’d told him. He’d been shocked, couldn’t have been more so if she’d told him she was off to become a dancing girl. He only asks himself the same questions over and over -- What? Why? How? More specifically, how could he have been so stupid? Why hadn’t he thrown it all to hell to begin with? Why did he wait so long? And most importantly, how could she have not understood that it was always supposed to be the two of them, Elsie and Charlie, in the end?

The realization that he shouldn’t be so shocked, that he’d never made his intentions clear, that he’d made the fatal mistake of assuming they’d fall into step, side by side, as they had for so many years, only hits him later, when he’s laying in his attic bedroom in the dead of night, and even though he can’t see them, he knows the stars are winking out one by one.

He watches her now as she clutches at Joe’s shoulder, her nails biting in gently to the tweed of his jacket, and to his utter shame and aggravation he feels tears prick his eyes, a heated mist rising, welling up and blurring his vision.

He fixes his vision on his shoes and prays this will be over soon. This dreaded day, this tortuous evening. He wants it, her, done and gone because he can’t — he really can’t take this anymore.

She hasn’t looked at him all day.

Not once.

Not that she should, but still, he was her friend, and she hasn’t spared him a glace at all. Not when she entered the church, a solitary gleaming figure of strength and beauty and grace beyond comprehension, not when she’d put her stern and capable (but so delicate, so achingly pretty and feminine) hand in the crook of Joe’s arm and emerged into a shower of rice and streamers and petals as his wife.

_His wife._

Carson heaves a strangled sigh, ignores the shaking heat of his breath.

He’s not sure how he feels about her studiously avoiding his gaze. Isn’t sure if he’s glad of it or if he’s moments away from rushing them on the dance floor, taking her (beautiful, so effortlessly pretty and sweet and desirable) face in his hands and forcing her solemn gaze upon him.

He watches her spin and twirl and his fists clench and unclench, reaching, grasping at thin air.

He wishes he’d at least kissed her once. Perhaps at Christmas or New Year’s or in one of those many heavy, heated moments when they lingered in the hall after all the others had toddled off to bed, their eyes caught too long, their bodies too close. Bone-tired, aching, exhausted, he still would have had her, anywhere she wanted, any _thing_ she wanted, if things were different, if he’d moved faster and she’d given him some sort of sign.

But no, that wouldn’t have done.

He has always known, as well as she, that she is trapped, more-so than he, or any male under their roof, or any silly young housemaid lallygagging in the village after church.  
She is an example. She is bound by the expectations of her title, their sensibilities, their world. She is bound and tied with string and plucked by the fingers of nobility and propriety. A beautiful marionette. There is no free movement for her here, every twitch a risk. All the keys on her intricate chatelaine couldn’t unlock the doors of the space she is expected to take up.

If she’d made an advance, if she had been bold and hot and sweet, if he’d blustered, bellowed, breathed a word, her ties could easily snap, be snipped, tangled, caught up. She could lose everything in the nip of his teeth on her skin.  
And he, well, he had been foolish enough to believe they had time, that he could help her come untied bit by bit, together with him, until all that was left was the two of them and their loose ends, their hanging strings.

But maybe he’s being silly now, a bit too imaginative. Perhaps he’s had too much to drink.

But still, there’s something to it, to the thought of her alone, strung up and waiting. He’d never considered how lonely she must have been, all cooped up and bound, until Joe had come to save her.

Joe and his farm, and his rough, calloused hands, his ruddy face and receding hairline, and he, Carson, standing there stupid, dumbstruck, as Joe deftly cut her ties, promised her all he never could.

He thinks Joe must be happy now, has gotten all he wanted and more, but she’s not looking at him either — not that he notices as he cuddles her close, continues to spin her in wide, artless circles around the dance floor.

She is looking over his shoulder, smiling politely at her guests or at the floor or toward the door, and he wonders if even surrounded by all these well-wishers, with a man in her arms, if Elsie Hughes is still lonely.

The blue of her eyes has begun to look black in the candlelight of the hall, her grip on Joe’s shoulders has loosened and he is, for all intents and purposes holding her up, swaying her prone form around the floor, and she’s looking so strange, so somber and glum, but he could be imagining it.

He hopes he is because he truly wants her to have what she wants and if he cannot give it to her, then by god someone should, even if it is this roughneck of a man who doesn’t deserve her.

Carson doesn’t know what he’s still doing here. The hall has gradually emptied to just a few of them now. Him, the happy couple, a few family friends (on Joe’s side), and the band. He can’t count how many cups of punch he’s had or the seconds he’s been watching them (her), but it seems like an eternity more before she gently pulls, pushes, extricates herself from the grasp of her husband (he wants to spit the word, tear it, hates himself for even thinking of its reality) whispers something to him, and excuses herself out a side door.

Joe is smiling to himself, has clapped his hands happily in front of his rounded (not any more than Carson’s if he’s feeling fair, which he isn’t), rotund belly and coughs a laugh. The friends that have lingered raise their glasses in his honor and he strides toward them, all pomp and pride, which is warranted, Carson thinks, but still lacking for the great fortune this man has stumbled upon in making Elsie his wife.

Charles watches them laugh and clap Joe’s back for a moment before a reckless thought overcomes him.

He throws back the rest of his punch, saccharine and strong, perhaps spiked with rum or some other sweet liquor, and follows her outside.

He finds her there in the half-light of the hall and the moon, clutching her hands around her shoulders and looking so endearingly small, he can’t help but smile.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Hughes,” he chokes out because he can’t, won’t say the other. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if he’s lucky.

He’ll address all his letters (for they’ve promised to stay in touch) to Elsie. Damn the impropriety of not gaining her permission first.

She turns slightly and the moon lights her from behind, giving her an ethereal glow she didn’t need to appear magical to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Carson.” She whispers, but it’s all wrong again — her voice, her expression. He doesn’t understand, can’t will himself to when it would be too easy -- too easy and right to assume she’s unhappy, second-guessing herself, and to get caught up in his own desires -- to sweep her away, take her for himself as is only right and good and proper and all, god, all that he desires.

And he’s shaking now in his repression, restraint, in swallowing the insane desire he has to touch her hair, run his fingers along the line of her shoulders, neck, to trace her features in the chill of the night air.

She shivers under his gaze as if he'd spoken aloud, and in another place, another time (twelve hours ago? less?) he would have given her his jacket to keep warm; would have reveled in the idea of it smelling of her for days after.

But this is not then and she is not his to warm.

“I am going to miss you.” He says, stunned by his own loose lips, crisp honesty.

Her eyes squeeze shut. He can see it from the corner of his eye as they stand there side by side and he thinks he hears her whisper on a sighed breath something that sounds close to “god, please don’t” and he doesn’t know what he’s done, but he doesn’t want to risk doing it again so he doesn’t do anything at all. He looks out at the silvery grass, at his shoes, and the blue-grey of it all and says nothing.

It is her that slides her pinky against his own, her that tangles their fingers, her who brings their joined hands to her lips, her who wets his knuckles with her tears, her who tells him so softly that she will miss him too, more than words can say.

It is her who ghosts her lips across his gripping fingers, who breaths hot and warm along his skin, who maybe only means to lick her lips but catches the edge of his ring finger as she cuddles their hands close.

He is barely breathing, is stunned, as always, by this brilliant, strained creature as she gasps and cries and traces little patterns with her lips and teeth across their skin, and there’s no mistaking the intentionality of her actions now, but he has no idea what’s going on.

He is straining himself, is aching and puffing and on the edge of something that can’t be defined - they are toeing that well-worn line again and he doesn’t know, is too foggy to understand if what she, they, are doing is improper or not because more than anything it’s devastating, it is hurting and crushing, and deeply sad.

But it is something else too. Something just there, beneath the surface, something that would bubble up, over, if either of them were to lightly scratch, to run manicured or well-trimmed nail over the surface and look, but, as ever, they don’t. And now, he is reminded, like a punch in the gut, a slap to his face so sharp he wonders for a moment if she’s actually slapped him, they cannot -- could not look if they wanted to because surely that would be beyond improper. It would be a sin.

_Thou shalt not covet thy neighbors wife._

Still, it is her, not he, who pulls away, and he can see it now, in her face, the desperate loneliness he never recognized before when they were sharing wine or checking ledgers, and he wonders what she will do with it now. If she will let it lie with Joe, as she does, or if she will hold it, carry it, bring it with her wherever she goes.

He wonders if she will find a place to set it down.

He wonders, as he watches her sad eyes, hears her soft goodbye echoed on his own lips, if he can follow her to that place if she finds it. Knows, with an aching certainty, that deals the final blow, that even now he’d follow her anywhere.

Carson stands alone, in the blue light of the moon, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and weeps.


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, Joe only lasts a year, just makes it through the bitter winter before he succumbs to a cough, and Elsie finds herself alone in Scotland with a sizable farm that's yet to be plowed this spring, and a barn full of animals she won't long be able to afford to feed.

She knows she should sell them - it - the lot, but the truth is, she isn't sure what she'd do if it was all gone. She'd lost the entirety of what she'd built independently as soon as she'd taken Joe's last name. Now she's lost Joe too.

It wasn't a great love affair, no, but she'd loved him in a way, and at this late stage it had been enough for Joe. Oh, he'd climbed atop her a few times, kissed her with dry, wind-burnt lips, rocked against her hips, but it had all been for naught. He'd apologized, of course, a thousand times, tiny whispers in her ear as she stroked his hair and tried to get used to the way his beard scratched her neck.

"It's all right." She'd soothed because, truthfully, it was more than all right. It was somewhat of a relief to Elsie that she wouldn't be expected to change her pace at this point in her life, that she wouldn't have to learn the steps to a new dance at the witching hour. There was no use pretending to was some great loss to her. Still, she had spent many a night curled in the warmth of Joe's arms, his snores gently ruffling the tendrils of hair around her face, and she'd felt at least affection.

She'd at least cared for him, and so, she mourns.

Maybe her grief is not as cutting, not as deep or poignant as a widow's should be, maybe she doesn't scream and cry to bring down the rafters, but she aches a little, just there in her heart, for the farm boy from Argyll and the life he left behind.

She's written to Peter, of course, asking if he's sure, if he's positive he doesn't want the land, the house. Joe had left it to her in his will, but still. She is well aware Peter could ask her to leave if he had a mind to, could cast her out with nowhere to go, and what would she do now? Now that she is old and has left the house where she'd built her legacy. She couldn't start again. No, it was too late, and besides that, Peter had responded with an emphatic 'no thank you' and it was hers if she wanted it. That left the farm to think of, to at least put her mind to.

So, Elsie finds herself in a routine, finds that she can handle it all just fine as long as she keeps her lip stiff and a bottle of whiskey for the nights when the demons run and she can't let sleeping dogs lie.

She doesn't think of Downton or anyone it houses if she can help it.

Sometimes she can't.

She's had a night like that and she certainly feels it as she rises painfully, blinks her eyes open for only a moment and rebukes the sun. Her head is filled with wool, her mouth cotton, and her eyes hurt so badly she thinks she might actually be sick.

Groaning, she cuddles her face into her pillow, she can't imagine what has roused her, why she's risen before noon when she's been paying the Parker boys a meager wage (plus a stack of shortbread) to tend to the cows and pigs and chickens, has decided to hell with plowing the fields.

"C'mon. Up with you."

Elsie groans again, louder. That would be why. Maybe if she just pretends she hasn't heard it, keeps the blanket clutched tight, tucked beneath her chin then—

"I said: up!"

With that, Glenna yanks the covers from between Elsie's strong grip, begins to pat her sister vigorously on the back.

"I've news for you."

Elsie rolls her eyes, despite their still being closed.

"Go away, Glenna."

Glenna scoffs, stares down at her sister's prone form, considers.

"Hey!" Elsie yelps as Glenna twitches the end of her nightgown up, nearly over her bum, and Elsie scrambles to hold it in place.

Oh, she's up now, but the room is spinning and she still feels sick, and Glenna's familiar laughter is doing nothing to raise her spirits.

"Christ." Elsie breathes gently, pressing her fingers to her lips, willing her stomach to stop roiling.

"What'd you do? Drink yourself silly? You know I need your help with the pies today! Lord, puss, Is it that bad without Joe?" Glenna rushes out, but her tone and Elsie's hazy memories of other wee morning hours spent in deep conversation with indicating she already knows the answer to her question.

So Elsie merely shakes her head as lightly as possible, mumbles from behind her fingers.

"What'd'y' want, Glenna?"

"I've already told you I've news for you." She replies, hands on her hips, then cocks her head to the side. "And I need help with the pies."

Elsie had forgotten about the pies, but to hell with them anyway. Glenna can do it herself, especially after a stunt like this. Still, she knows her sister, knows herself, and knows there's nothing for it but to find out whatever it is that has Glenna in a twist.

"Well then for heaven's sake get on with it will you?"

"Tetchy," Glenna says, seating herself none too gently on the edge of Elsie's bed.

Despite the rush of nausea at the movement, Elsie doesn't stir, just stares blearily at her sister. Glenna's eyes are sparkling, they're a crisp amber color, more like their father that way, and her dark hair (here they match), has begun to fall lopsided from its confines - as if she'd run here.

Elsie's eyes narrow slightly, but she reserves judgment. Glenna has always been a bit dramatic, a tad giddy, and Elsie can't imagine anything in their sleepy village truly worth fussing over. She is reminded briefly, with a bolt of affection for the similarity, of a red-haired cook with ruddy cheeks and a flair for theatrics and feels her heart skip, her stomach turn. She can't think about that sort at all, so instead, she rubs her hands across her cheeks and focuses on not getting sick all over her clean sheets.

"You know the big house?"

Elsie moves to wiping gingerly at her eyes.

"Which big house?"

It is Glenna's turn to roll her eyes.

"'Which big house', she says. I've half a mind to pour the rest of that blasted plonk down the drain — if you've left any!" She pushes gently against Elsie, who, in her vulnerable state, sways dangerously, and so, ever the eldest, Glenna's hands dart out again to pull her steady by her nightdress.

Despite her complaining, Glenna acquiesces.

"Duneagle, of course!"

Elsie looks at her sister quizzically, or she thinks she manages quizzical, it's hard to tell when she can barely keep her eyes open.

"Aye." She says through a yawn. They are both like this now— prone to slipping in and out of their girlish brogue.

There must be some kerfuffle, some exciting scandal or gossip. She doesn't know much about the house or its occupants, but she's heard it mentioned, of course. Still, she can't imagine why Glenna's roused her for this. It's naught to do with them.

"What of it?"

Glenna pats her slim thighs, all willowy where Elsie is curved and muscled.

"Well, I thought you might be interested. That's all."

This begins to poke at some alarm in the back of Elsie's clouded mind, though she can't think, can't sort for what reason at the moment.

"Ye thought I might be interested." She repeats.

Glenna sniffs.

"Aye."

Elsie stares at Glenna, who stares ahead at the wall, neither willing to give, until finally Elsie huffs, leans back against the pillows. If Glenna's going to be this way, Elsie figures she might as well be comfortable. She'll not ask for the details of something she hadn't even asked to know in the first place. No, if Glenna wants to tell her little morsel, she will have to do so with no encouragement from Elsie. She is more than a match for her sister where grit and determination are concerned.

Glenna looks from the corner of her eyes and then back again toward the wall. Presses her lips in a thin line.

Elsie gives a little look of annoyance, but spares her poor, aching eyes another roll.

"You're insufferable, d'you know that?" Elsie comments, offhand, examining her nails where one has begun to crack along the edge. She'll have to cut them soon. A farm is no place for long nails anyway.

"Don't pick." Glenna finally says.

Elsie is feeling alive enough to quirk a brow.

"What're you going to do, pull my braid and make me cry so that Mam has to descend from the heavens to break us up?"

Glenna's laugh is a little less grating this time 'round.

"Funny, crabbit. No, I'd just like to see a little more light in your eyes is all. A little excitement."

"Well, you've not told me anything to put it there, Glenna. What do I care if they've got guests up at the castle? Sounds like more of the same to me. There might be a parade or carnival though, I suppose, which might be nice, if I can get young Billy Parker to take a cart, maybe sell some of the eggs or vegetables from the garden." Elsie muses.

Glenna has a strange, desperate look in her eye as she gazes back, and it's enough to make Elsie stop.

"What?"

"I know you're the one that got out of here and picked herself up by her own scruff, but my god, you make me sure I got the brains between the two of us."

"Glenna!" Elsie guffaws.

"Els! You've missed the point entirely! Who gives a fig about a blooming carnival, the Granthams have come to stay at Duneagle!"

Elsie feels like she's maybe been slapped or punched or had a cold bucket of water thrown over her. There's a rushing in her ears. The first thing she registers is that Glenna is holding her arms, squeezing her, saying something, but Elsie feels like she can't blink, definitely can't speak, like she must still be mad with it or dreaming. She says nothing, stares dumbly up at her sister.

"Elsie, did you hear me?" Glenna looks at her, concerned. "What's wrong with you, lass? These are your folk! Are ye not excited?"

Elsie slowly, so slowly she's not sure she's really doing it, shakes her head, back and forth.

Glenna's brow furrows.

"You aren't?"

"I-" Elsie starts, forces a deep breath through her nose, is sure she's going to be sick now. Just sure of it.

"I don't really know what to think, Glenna." She smiles benignly, hopes her sister can't use that cunning gaze she shared with their mother to see or hear her heart beating wildly, about to jump right through her nightdress. "It's hardly like I'll see any of them. It's nice they get a holiday, I suppose. I hope the staff is allowed to indulge as well. I know what drudgery such travel with the lot of them can be."

Glenna continues to peer at her strangely a moment, then releases her arms.

"Oh." She says. "I guess I hadn't thought about whether they'd bring all the troops. I guess I hoped you'd be able to see an old acquaintance or two. Someone to bring you out of this miserable, and rather unbecoming, stupor."

Elsie scrunches her nose at her sister's jibe, but chooses not to comment, imagines her state is rather unbecoming after all, can imagine a much deeper voice, coming from a barrel chest telling her the like.

"I'm fine, Glenna. I appreciate you telling me. It was a sweet gesture really." Elsie pats her hand.

"Even if I'll have to strangle you with the bed skirt should you choose to give me such a rude awakening ever again."

Elsie feels her sister's chuckle more than hears it and she gives a gentle laugh too.

"I was so excited I nearly planted Arthur firm in the ground the way I trampled over him to get here. D'ye know how long it's been since I hitched my skirt over a bicycle, puss? All that for this sorry sight" She says, chucking Elsie gently beneath the chin.

"I know that this—" she pauses, seeming to search for the right word before finally landing on, "-Scotland, is not all that you wanted, puss, but perhaps it's not at bad as all that. Maybe things'll start to turn around now?"

Elsie hears what Glenna doesn't say — now that she's on her own again, no longer in a marriage based more on ancient history and commonality than anything that could put a skip in her step or spark in her eye.

"Maybe." Elsie concedes a small smile, but in truth, she's no idea what she's feeling. It's all too jumbled, too knotted, and she's well past too tired to sort it. She feels suddenly exhausted at the thought of even attempting it. She has the creeping feeling that if she were to dwell too deep there, in that darkness that haunts her edges, she'd likely never leave her bed again.

She only knows she hasn't felt anything clearly, viscerally, since that night in Yorkshire that she drinks so fervently to forget.

Elsie swallows thickly.

"Well, are we going to sit here all day or are you going to let me dress and face this irritatingly sunny day?"

Glenna smiles.

"You're sure there's nothing you need, puss? Nothing I can do?"

Elsie is starting to feel uncomfortable now, the way she does whenever anyone gets too soft on her.

"Oh, I suppose I could use some help." She says, slow, innocent.

"Well, put a name to it, then." Glenna says.

"How about a fresh bottle of your finest? Seems I'm all out." She smiles.

Glenna laughs outright.

"Oh, I'll help ye alright, ya wee mink. I'll perhaps scrub the potatoes from behind your ears or empty your head of spiders and cobwebs as I used to! Is that what ye want?"

Elsie grimaces then smiles, cajoling.

"How about a headache powder then?"

"I suppose that could be arranged," Glenna says. "but don't get used to it. I'm only willing because I need your help today."

It's Elsie's turn to laugh outright. They both know good and well Glenna will always be there if she needs it. If she'd only ask. They know it as well as they know that Elsie will never ask.

Glenna sizes Elsie up again, her white gown and mussed hair escaping its sloppy braid, she could almost pass for the bairn who had climbed in with her at night during awful storms — if only her eyes weren't bloodshot, her breath sour with liquor, her laugh broken, if only.

With that thought, Glenna hops up clapping loudly and grinning as Elsie's eyes cross.

"Right then, up and at 'em, puss! Mae McCormick's wedding pies aren't going to bake themselves!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve officially lost control. I definitely do not have time to write a multi chapter fic, but here we are. I’ll do my best to update in a timely fashion :)


	3. Chapter 3

Carson did not want to go to Scotland. Decidedly so. In fact, he tries not to think of Scotland at all, if he can help it. Thinking of Scotland only led to thinking of her, and thinking of her only led to thinking of her with him, him with his rough hands all over her, sharing her shy smiles and enticing lip bites, and that only led to Carson stomping around all day in a sour mood that made him even more cross by the very nature of his having no right to be cross in the first place. 

She was a married woman and not to him and that was it on the matter. 

Still, he didn’t fancy Scotland this year, and yet, he finds himself standing in for Mr. Bates, who has caught a summer cold. Summer cold, he thinks, more like a bloody sniffle. He is, thankfully, able to keep his foul mood mostly to himself. It isn’t out of the ordinary for him to isolate himself from the rest of the staff, so no one thinks anything of it, bothers him about it. And if he uses his free time to stew and try valiantly (in vain) to not think about where she might be and how close they might be and if she ever thinks of him, or wonders if he’s near, what of it?

He very much doubts the latter. She knew of the summer trips that the family made to Scotland, of course, but she’d never been. Had never seemed interested in knowing much about it, had, in fact, avoided it actively, it seemed to him. He had only seen her speak about it once, when pressed, with her ladyship concerning a rather nice bedding arrangement she’d seen in Scotland that she’d wanted Elsie to look into acquiring for one of the far guest rooms, but that had been the extent of it -- a quickly murmured “of course, your ladyship,” and that was the end of it. Therefore, Carson felt reasonably sure that even if she was near that neither of them would ever know it. Besides that, Scotland was a reasonably sized little plot, and he was foolish to even wonder it. 

He does occasionally wonder if he should have looked for her -- tried to find an address so that they might make good on their promises to keep in touch. He’d thought of it more than once, but what was the point? He had only a few choice things he wanted to say to her (I’m sorry, I’m a fool, please marry me?) and none of them would be appropriate for a letter to a married woman from an old work colleague. He doubts she even thinks of it, even misses him. She’d been down at the reception, but that was natural. She was leaving a life behind her, after all. And he was part of it, that was sure, but he wasn’t anything particular to her. A friend perhaps, but friendships easily faded, and with the distance, and his confusing feelings toward her, well, it hadn’t been very likely to last anyway, not very wise, even if he’d had the nerve to set pen to paper. 

His ruminations, he reminds himself, are, of course, pointless, maudlin, pathetic. 

He tries to keep his mind on his task as he helps his lordship dress for the day, tries to focus on buttons and cuff links and seams, but the routine is such a part of him now, so beaten into his bones, that it’s easy for his mind to wander, think, dwell on things it shouldn’t.   
Like how somehow stepping off the train into the crisp highland winds had smelled familiar or the way that a spray of heather made his chest ache or the intensity with which he’d watched the rolling hills beyond the castle every night before locking up. 

His half day is tomorrow, and he half-registers his lordship asking him what he shall do, if he has any plans.

“I- I’m not quite sure, your lordship.” He says, brow wrinkling as he brushes across his master’s shoulders with the lint brush. 

It’s been years since he has been to Duneagle with the family. Between the war and poor Sybil and the many years he’s not served as a valet, he isn’t sure he remembers much about the grounds or its lures. He’d been so busy thinking about El-- other things, that he hadn’t given his precious little free time much thought. He casts his mind back to what he might have done on his half days back when -- can't recall. 

“You might take a walk to the village.” Robert says, in that manner of his, familiar to all aristocracy, that demands more than asks. 

Carson wrinkles his brow, just a bit, and steps back from Lord Grantham. 

“I hadn’t thought of it, milord.” 

He watches as Robert sips his drink, fiddles with a cuff link that’s already perfect, skews it. 

Carson’s face remains impassive. 

“It’s a nice walk. Might put a spring in your step, eh?” 

Carson’s brows wrinkle in earnest now, but he can’t think of anything to say to such an odd comment, so he does what he does best — holds his tongue. 

“Right. Well, jolly good, old chap. I do hope you enjoy it.” Robert says, and Carson wonders if he’s had more than one or two drinks this evening or if he’s half in his own mind, as he usually is, and speaking only to fill the emptiness.

“Thank you, milord.” Carson says, because what else is there to say? He supposes he’s going to the village tomorrow. To do what, he doesn’t know, but it might be nice to escape into the open air, to make some small effort to dispel the fog he’s been in for quite some time now, or perhaps he’ll simply blend in with the misty Scottish morning. 

He’d be alright with that too.   
____________________________________________________________________________  
Carson has strange dreams that night. He dreams of rivers and roads and he’s traveling past them all, trotting right along, and he has the overwhelming sense he’s forgotten something, is going the wrong way, is in a hurry, but is already too late. 

He wakes groggy and grumpy and feeling altogether mean and so he figures his getting out of the house would be best for all of them. He dresses quickly, checks idly on the staff, those that belong to him, and leaves strict instructions for behavior in his absence, and then he’s out the door. 

He’s out the door and he’s breathing in the bracing summer air, relishing in the rare sun against his cheeks, and he instantly feels a little better. The tension in his brow abates a little. His hands flex open from their clenched positions. He looks out on the fine rolling hills, the blues and greens, and the tightness in his chest morphs from irrational anger into something else. Something sweeter and more hollow that hurts worse. Like a toothache. Like he’s crumbling from the inside out. 

Clenching his fists again, he walks on. 

The walk to the village takes him a healthy quarter hour, and as he reaches its edges he takes another trembling breath. There are several people bustling around, ducking in and out of shops, skittering across the roadway, laughing jauntily on the pavement. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. It could almost be Ripon, but it isn’t, and he feels stupid because now that he’s here he isn’t sure what to do. He listens to the lilting tones of people gabbing, men and women asking after neighbors commenting on health and the weather, and he tries desperately not to think about the familiarity of the sound, but it’s there isn’t it? It can’t be avoided. 

He thought escaping the house would help. He’s felt so trapped, so smothered, and lost lately because he loves his position, his lot in life, he really does, and he doesn’t understand this feeling, this darkness. He thought he could outwalk it in the summer sun of Scotland, but he’s only agitated it, shook it and changed its shape like the turn of a child’s kaleidoscope. 

He’s surrounded by something out here that both calms him and sets him on edge. It makes his teeth set and he’s aware he’s probably looking strange now, hovering at the edge of this perfectly nice village, loathing himself and he doesn’t know what else and damnit he doesn’t understand these feelings or how he’s supposed to — 

“Oof!” is all he manages before he’s scrambling for purchase, trying to regain his balance and it’s too late because he is tripping, falling and taking her with him, for it is a her that has run into him with such force. 

They stumble and he trips sideways into a branch to keep her from doing so, and then he manages to catch himself there, to keep them both from becoming heaps in the dirt. 

He hears a shriller sound, a little squeak that makes his heart race, and when he looks down he sees he has his hands full of a woman who has just run into him, possibly hit him with her bike, her dark hair is pinned neatly beneath her hat, and, God, he can’t see her face the way she’s leaning down to pick up spilled apples, but he knows, he simply knows, it’s all too familiar and then she looks up and —

“Och, I’m so sorry! Are ye alright?” She lilts and his heart dips because he’d been so sure. 

He tries to recover himself, brushes at his suit briefly before kneeling slightly to help her, to gather up what seems like an unreasonable amount of apples for one person.

“I— yes.” He says as he hands her one and mentally congratulates himself on his eloquence- his stupidity in getting caught up, in thinking it might actually be her. 

But then this woman smiles at him and damn if she isn’t close. Her cheeks are high and her hair is dark and her expression of concealed amusement he could never forget, but it’s her eyes that are all wrong and her shape. Her eyes are a pretty brown, almost amber, but they aren’t stormy blue, they don’t quite crinkle in the way that makes him want to dare her further, and then she’s all long and lean, and tall. She could be Mary’s height, he estimates, and about her build. He tries not to dwell on the ways in which this stranger’s figure, just slightly, reminds him a little more of someone else. 

He realizes he’s been staring too long when he sees her hand coming up to touch his brow. He just barely resists the urge to slap it away. 

“Oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve done a number on you in my clumsy rushing. You’re bleeding.”   
He knows it to be true when she presses her thumb against the scratch on his brow and he feels its sting. 

Bloody fantastic. 

“It’s all right.” He grumbles, fumbling in his pocket for his kerchief. When he locates it, he is torn for a moment before he offers it to her to wipe her thumb. She does so and he feels his blood trickling toward his eye. 

“It’s not! It really isn’t. Lord, and you aren’t even from here. Gods what a cow I am. What a silly old cow. Please, come with me. I’ve a kit at home. I’ll get you all patched up.” 

There are alarm bells raging in Carson’s mind. Home? Go home with this woman? This stranger? He can’t. He can’t even fathom the implications, the scandal, the potential for impropriety. 

The way she cocks a brow at him makes him wonder if all Scottish women might be witches, able to read minds and emotions plain as if you’d spoken them. 

“My husband, Arthur, will be there too. And my sister. I’m not suggesting anything untoward Mr...?” 

“Carson.” He supplies, after a pause. The blood is starting to run down his cheek now and he really is in a state, could use a proper bandage for his walk home. The day is already a disaster, so what is there to lose?

“If you’re sure, Mrs...?” 

“Scott.” She supplies helpfully, before gesturing for him to follow her. “It’s a bit on the nose, but it suits me fine.” She smiles. His heart does that strange little shiver again because it’s just adjacent to identical. It’s so close, but it’s not quite right. He admonishes himself for what feels like the thousandth time for even continuing down this unproductive path of comparing anyone and everyone to an invisible standard of rightness that, when he’s willing to admit it, he equates with the one person he can’t stand to think of because of the pain of it. 

“C’mon.” Mrs. Scott says, gathering up the bike that’s been laying on its side and pushing it along. “It’s not far. Dab yourself with this on the way.” She says, handing him his soiled kerchief back.

And, once again, feeling for all the world as if he really has no say in the matter, Carson pushes the dry cotton to his brow and walks on.


	4. Chapter 4

Elsie finds herself quite in her own mind as she carefully kneads the pastry dough, occasionally adding drops of water to make sure it stays moist.

She's never been much of a cook — doesn't have the patience. Elsie is about proficiency and results. She can appreciate the artistry of cooking, can even admire the methodical mess of it all, but it's not for her.

She'd helped her mam, of course, and been a scullery maid at the start. She'd even helped Mrs. Patmore now and then, in a pinch. But Beryl knew better than anyone she couldn't be relied upon for much more than a few stirs, simple mixing and kneading, and boiling.

She thinks briefly that it has perhaps been a blessing that she was never taken as a wife early on, lest her man, whoever he might've been, Joe or some other, would have found her utterly lacking.

She'd scraped by on the farm, with Glenna's tutelage, but only just.

She sighs wearily as she carefully balls the dough, sets it aside covered gingerly with a cloth.

She hadn't intended for her thoughts to become quite so maudlin, so grey, but with Glenna off to buy more apples and Arthur out plowing his fields, she'd found herself suddenly surrounded by more quiet and less diversion than she's had in quite some time.

She wishes fervently that she could distract herself. She so desperately does not want to get stuck in one of her moods. She needs something. Music or reading or mending or idle chatter in the village, or drinking, anything to keep her from dwelling.

She wonders idly if Glenna might have some nice whiskey stored somewhere, then she remembers the aching in her eyes and her dry, scratchy throat and thinks maybe it's for the best she doesn't go poking around.

Still, the peaceful silence along with the mechanical movements of her hands had allowed her to meditate on exactly what it meant to be alone as she was. To know that even in Glenna's kitchen she was separate. Glenna had her own life, her own husband, her own sweet Maggie newly married to a local farmer's son. So much that Elsie didn't have.

Not that she wanted it.

It was only that it was strange to think how isolated one could become. How easy it could be to share your life with no one but yourself. It had been what she was trying to avoid by leaving Downton. Well, that along with the other thing. That deep down, drown-it-with-whiskey little mite that dug and burrowed at her breast until she was raw and lonely and scared.

It was a pity she'd found it anyway, even here amongst the purple clover.

Elsie nearly jumps out of her skin as the door flies open so fast that it smacks against the cottage wall.

"Gangway!" She hears Glenna shout before she sees her, leading a hulking, behemoth of a man along behind her, forcing him to sit over his stifled protests of "Mrs. Scott...really, please...totally unnecessary, minor flesh wound..."

Elsie is convinced she's possibly, probably, finally gone mad.

"Don't just stand there, puss! Give me a hand!" Glenna gestures toward Elsie with frantic little jerks of her wrist, but Elsie couldn't move if she wanted to, is still staring at her sister and the man who is very obviously, so very obviously and impossibly Mr. Carson, with a gaping mouth and wide eyes.

"What the devil is the matter with you? Get the kit, he's bleeding! I knocked him over, you see and, well, there was a tree, and frankly, I'm not really sure how it all happened Mr. Carson, are you because...?"

Glenna is babbling now, as she always does when she's nervous or ashamed or most especially when she's lying, but Elsie isn't listening because she's said it now and - it is. There's no denying that it is Mr. Carson. In her sister's kitchen. Bleeding.

He can't see her of course, not from where she is in the hall and Glenna's hand holding an unfurled kerchief up to his eye, probably doing more damage than good, and for a split second Elsie thinks she will run. She thinks she will run right past them and gather her skirts like a young lass and run all the way down the road to the farm. She can't, of course, both in principle and for practical, boning and cotton-type reasons. Probably wouldn't make it down the lane, but it's a nice thought. A calming thought. She stares.

"Elsie. May. Hughes." Glenna chastises, and Elsie sees Mr. Carson stiffen, sees his breathing stop entirely. "What is wrong with you? Are you still mad with it? Get over here with the kit!"

And Mr. Carson has begun to move now, he's making frantic little motions, trying to figure out how he can move Glenna's hand from his brow without touching her wrist, can lean forward to peer further in Elsie's direction without pressing himself against her middle.

Glenna senses his desperation, although perhaps not its cause, and sighs heavily before she says, "Well then at least come over here ya daft ninny and hold the cloth. If you aren't going to be any use to me the least you can do is use that fancy training to help our guest. Lord, I thought you were meant to be cultured."

She rolls her eyes, and Elsie doesn't remember walking closer to Glenna, but the next thing she knows her sister is pushing her hand against the warm cotton she'd know anywhere, even stained crimson, and is gently guiding her to stand at Mr. Carson's knees, and then she's gone, and Elsie is left, dumbstruck, staring into the thunderous eyes of Charles Carson.

They stare at each other silently for a moment, both with thoughts racing faster than they can possibly process. He thinks wildly of the way her freckles seem more prominent, her eyes bluer than he remembers. She thinks of the heavenly scent of him, the softness of his brow. They both think they must be dreaming.

"Hello." She says, finally, quietly, because someone has to move them forward and it might as well be her.

"Mrs. Hughes." He grumbles, the disbelief evident in his voice and his gaze hasn't shifted from her face, seems to be cataloging her every feature, and she's feeling so uncomfortable now. The heat of his brow is permeating the cloth and she feels overwhelmed. She doesn't know what to say or where to look.

"Mrs. Hughes, I…" he starts, but she doesn't want him to speak, can't stand the deep tenor of it, the feel of his breath on her wrist, she can't. She can't bear it at all, and she's about to pull away, to leave him bleeding and start running — to hell with her corset and skirts, but she's saved, isn't she always, by the sound of her sister clambering toward them, holding a bottle aloft.

"Found it! Found it. Here."

She shoves the bottle at Elsie.

"Use the antiseptic. I'm still digging for the bandage."

And it's true, Glenna's up to her elbows in medical supplies, muttering to herself about Arthur and a cut on his hand, and having just seen the bandages.

"I can."

Elsie registers the deep rumble of his voice and meets his gaze as he stares up at her. His eyes are soft. Whatever had been there when they'd first clapped eyes on each other has vanished, and he seems smaller now, somehow, like a child.

"If you don't— you can't— I can do it myself." He fumbles, gesturing for her to give him the bottle.

She stuns them both by holding it out of his reach.

Flustered, surprised at herself, "that won't be necessary, I don't think, Mr. Carson." She says.

He drops his hand, looks up at her with an almost pained expression.

"Alright then." He says.

Carefully, she lifts the cloth of his kerchief from the gash. It's nasty, but not deep. Her brows crease anyway.

"How'd she manage this?" She whispers, more to herself than anyone. She's half very seriously annoyed with Glenna for hurting him, somewhere underneath the shock of it all.

"It was my fault," Carson says, shifting agitatedly in his seat. "I was standing smack in the middle of the road. If it wasn't her it would've been someone else."

Elsie doesn't respond because she can't. Her heart is beating in her throat. This is insane. This whole situation and yet, here they are, falling into old rhythms, so easy, it's too damned easy…

"Found it!" Glenna says again, wildly, causing Elsie to jump, and Carson to wince as the movement jostles her fingertips onto his cut.

"Give it here, then," Elsie demands, readjusting her grip, and holding her free hand out to Glenna.

Glenna dutifully hands her some gauze pads and the bandage pack.

She bites her lip.

"I truly am sorry, Mr. Carson." She says, and then, "are you sure you've got that, puss? Do you need help?"

Elsie scowls, but she's facing Mr. Carson so there's no way for Glenna to know.

"I'm sure." She clips. And then, after a beat, "don't call me that."

Glenna cocks a brow, but says nothing. Her gaze flitters between her sister and this big, hulking man, Mr. Carson.

"This will sting," Elsie says.

"Yes." Mr. Carson says back.

And Glenna suddenly feels as if she's intruding on a very intimate moment.

"I'm just going to pop round the back, see if Arthur's on his way back for lunch." She says, but neither of them turns to acknowledge her.

She can't help but smirk as she leaves the kitchen. Well all right then, she thinks, perhaps she's not lost forever after all.


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you ready?” She asks, and the way her breath fans across his face makes him think this is definitely a dream. She smells sweet, like sugar and cinnamon, and something fresh, like lemon, that he recognizes from before, something completely her. 

There are tendrils of her hair escaping her done-up style. He isn’t sure what it’s called, but he’s seen her with it this way before, during busy mornings, he’s seen it coming down like this too, when the maids are wailing and something’s spilled or broken and she’s right there in the thick of it, smoothing it over, making it right. She looks the same. Thank god. He’d half expected if he ever saw her again to be able to tell, to know that she was different now. 

_Married_. 

And she was that, the thought skips across his reeling mind like a stone, but she was also the same. Her high cheeks and pink lips, the lower one pulled between her teeth as she reaches gently over him to put the gauze on the table, wiggles her entire body in her efforts to uncork the listerine. He tries not to grin, to look as thrilled as he feels. He can’t believe this is happening. That she’s here and so close and...

“Bloody ow!” He exclaims, so off with the fairies that he’d quite missed her soaking the gauze, pressing it to the cut on his head. 

“I told you it would hurt!” She says matter-of-factly, instead of apologizing, instead of balking. He finds it rather nice. 

Even nicer as she leans forward just a bit, blows a gentle stream of air across the gash and it feels instantly better, better than any apology she could have uttered, or he thinks it does, he’s since lost the ability to think coherently. Mrs. Hughes, Elise, is here, in front of him, nearly between his knees, and she’s tending to a wound caused by a woman who turned out to be her sister, with such gentle presses of her fingers, the pursing of her lips.

He has the ludicrous desire to put his hands on her hips, to hold her steady as she’s so near. His hands clench at is sides. The way she has his head tilted, held in both hands, he can feel her nails (longer, just slightly, than she’d kept them at Downton) scrape just lightly through the hair above his ears. She’s inspecting him closely and he is practically centimeters from having his face pressed to her bosom. Her lips are so near to his skin he can feel her words as much as he hears them. He closes his eyes because he thinks he probably has to, to avoid embarrassing himself.

“Better?” She asks, barely leaning away, poised to exhale across his tender flesh again should he need it, desire it. 

She’d run for the hills, he’s sure, if she knew exactly what it was he desired.

He keeps his eyes and fists clenched shut. Forces himself not to move. 

“Much.”

“Good.” 

She busies herself with the bandage, dressing the cut, securing it, while he tries hard to collect himself. Keeps his eyes closed. Doesn’t think about the buttons on her pretty cream blouse or the way they’d strained when she’d first leaned toward him.

When she’s finished, she takes a step back to admire her handiwork. He misses her heat immediately.

God, he’s feeling stupid again. Like a bloody teenager or randy footman. He’s barely breathing. What is wrong with him? 

It’s a moment before he registers she’s speaking.

“It should hold, but do try to change it before bed. Perhaps again in the morning, but then you’ll need to let it breathe so it can heal. Keep the ointment on it.” 

She rattles off her instructions without looking in his eyes, staring squarely at his forehead. She looks almost pained, but he can’t work out why. 

“And I’m sorry,” she says, “for Glenna’s clumsiness. She’s like a whirlwind, that one.” 

A half smile graces her face and for a second he can only stare. He feels absolutely giddy, just seeing her, hearing her, he feels better than he has in months, and he’d get hit by a thousand sisters (hers or the others) on bikes if it meant seeing her again like this, being so near.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hughes.”

She looks up at him sadly, says nothing.

His smile drops. He corrects himself. The spell begins to crack, shatters. 

“Mrs. Burns, I mean, of course. I’m sorry.” 

She looks away, folds her hands in front of her, further tortures her pretty lips. The weight of what isn’t being said begins to press down, and he remembers suddenly the reality of this situation, feels it bubbling up against the shock and joy he’d been feeling so suddenly, drowning it as quickly. He’s got to get out of here, he decides. Must get away from this place and this _Mrs. Burns_.

He’s standing now, fidgeting with his waistcoat, stretching to his full height, he’s got to leave this house now, but _oh_ , standing there with her, he’s forgotten how small she is, how petite really, how his hands could probably reach clear around her middle, where her heavy skirt meets the silky plane of her top and whatever she’s got beneath, and _oh god_ , he’s doing it again and why is it suddenly too hot? It’s boiling and the house is too small and she’s moved toward him now, just a bit, a half step, her mouth half-open, her hand half- raised, halfway like everything between them, and he thinks she means to touch him.

He could take anything but that, could bear anything, but her soft hand on him again. It’s all too much, this place, her presence. And she’s married for Christ’s sake. This was such a mistake, coming here. He couldn’t have known this is what would await, he knows, rationally, somewhere deep, but all the same, he should have anticipated that this is what would happen if their paths ever crossed again. The pain it would cause. He can’t believe he’d half-hoped, wished, prayed for this moment.

He is a fool.

The thought strikes him and he feels the deep ache in his chest begin to crack, to pour forth something he can’t contain. 

He has to go. Right now. 

He moves with such haste, backs away from her so quickly he bangs the chair, displaces it with his calf as he starts to move toward the door. 

“Thank you, _Mrs. Burns_ ,” he says, and it comes out pointed, harsher than he intended, ragged 'round the edges as he feels. He sees her flinch. Tries again. "And thank Mrs. Scott for me, will you?"

He looks at her, takes in her pretty eyes, the curling wisps of her hair, and feels a flash of anger spike through him.

“And I’m sorry," he says, unceremoniously.  "I'm truly sorry I ended up here.”

This is coming out all wrong he knows, but he still can’t think straight, is as frustrated and confused as he was buoyant moments ago.

“I must go. I...” he stops to look at her where she’s frozen at the kitchen table, her face a mask of confusion and possibly something else, something worse.

She starts to speak. Her voice cracking.

“Mr. Carson, please —“

“No.”

He cuts her off, and it’s sharp, it’s sharp and final and just like the old days, back when she’d been head housemaid and him newly appointed butler and he’d been set on marking his authority, showing her who was in charge.

“No,” he repeats, with the same rush of heat and pride he always feels when he is finally back in control, on solid ground.

“ _Goodbye_ , Mrs. Burns.” He says, severely, finality ringing in his voice.

He doesn’t give her a chance to protest, rushes out the door.

He can hear someone, not Elsie, Mrs. Scott- _Glenna_ -then, calling after him, saying his name, but he doesn’t turn, because he can feel it now, every harsh emotion, every bitter thought he’s had over the last year rushing back, rolling over him like a wave. He strides away quickly and efficiently, his long legs allowing him to far outpace either woman, he’s sure.

_And good riddance_ , he thinks bitterly.

* * *

 

Charles trudges back toward the castle. It’s nearly one now, and he should be rushing, quickening his pace to get there before he’s really late, but he simply can’t be bothered. 

He’s slowed down a little, but he’d practically run through the village in his haste to escape that place. To escape her. He’d worked his way senselessly through the unfamiliar terrain until he’d found a spot where he might cut through a wooded area, between the village and Duneagle.

It was there, in the somber silence of the cove, that he’d let himself feel the pain in his chest, the heat on his face and his collar. His teeth were clenched against the unbearable sharpness, the heavy ache. He had spent a good ten minutes there, resisting the urge to kick, to tear, to beat his fists against the bark of defenseless timber.

Even now, walking along, having added a half hour to his walk by taking the wooded path, he seethes, clenches his fists so hard his cropped nails cut his palms, relishes in the pain of it. The small, physical representation of the bitter storm raging within him. 

What a sodding, bloody, ignorant fool he’s been. Thinking of her. Dreaming of her. Unable to banish either habit even in the face of her absence. Wishing her back, near, close to him so that he might touch her, kiss her hand as she had his those many months ago, revere her.

Idiot.

_And what of her_?! He suddenly wonders.

She’d had no right, no right to touch him like that, to be so tender and kind when she was married, to be so close to another man. He wouldn’t stand for it if she was his wife, that’s for certain. No, that sort of thing would be reserved for him and him alone, thank you very much.

In his angry state, he deludes himself into believing this is true.

He was a friend, sure, but what did she mean by blowing across his flesh like that, tending to the sting? He’d never thought her a reckless woman, wanton or improper, but now he’s not so sure.

Would tell her so much, he thinks, if he ever has the misfortune of seeing her again.

Which, he reminds himself, he never wants to again. Never. 

He purposely kicks a small stone in his path. Loves the way it scuffs the toe of his shoes. He’ll be up polishing tonight then, which is fine with him because he can’t close his eyes anyway. Can’t let his mind drift for a second without feeling her cool fingers on his brow, her sweet breath across his skin, her smooth shape pressed just lightly against his knees.

“Fuck.” He murmurs, because he rarely curses, especially out loud, especially this word, but it is the only one that seems fitting for his plight.

Lord, what is wrong with him? With her? How had his morning gone so utterly pear-shaped? It’s all so outlandish. So awful and strange and utterly senseless.

He is a pathetic old man, half-silly over a married woman. And he is weak, terribly so, because he knows, _god_ , he knows deep in his angry soul that it’s wrong, all wrong, that he would still, after everything, follow her anywhere she bid.

Daft.

Still, he had an iota of comfort in the fact that he’d been caught off guard. If he’d had time to prepare, had an arranged meeting, an appointment, some sort of idea he’d be seeing her, he could have readied himself. He could have taken the time to remember her in detail so that he wouldn’t have been stunned, struck so by her delicate beauty, her effortless grace, her slight silhouette. And he would have, he assures himself. He would have been prepared and treated her with the utmost respect. He would have noticed the band of gold on her hand and left it all alone, kept his distance, would have never been so close. So damned, bloody close to her. 

He doesn’t know what he shall do now. He doesn’t know how to go about forgetting a relationship that was not, a feeling in vain. He doesn’t know how to begin this vital process of cutting her out of his life, his mind, his heart. Only knows he must do so, with determination and efficiency. He must remove her without hesitation or remorse. Like a surgeon. And then he must bury all this, her, very deep. So deep it can’t be reached, accidentally jostled or disturbed. He will grow old and die with this terrible ache and it will be his punishment for being a damned fool.

He resolutely ignores the hot pricking in his eyes by clenching his teeth. 

He nods to himself, his decision made, and feels the bandage on his forehead pull, shift. 

Another uncertainty. What will he say about this? How will he explain his gash to the staff or his lordship? Certainly, he can’t be seen in the dining room, the ballroom, the parlor, marred as he is. Doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Duneagle looms large in the not so distant horizon and without realizing it, without acknowledging his immediate failure, he is thinking of her again. Her odd expression as he’d rushed away, fumbled his apology, fills his mind. He remembers confusion, yes, and something else, something he thinks he’s maybe seen before, once, maybe, on a chilly night when he’d grieved her loss and he spends the remainder of his walk trying to name it. 


	6. Chapter 6

Elsie can name it well enough, knows exactly the feeling that's spreading through her chest, coagulating into a heavy lump in her throat.

Grief.

Grief like she's never felt before, not even for her poor, dead husband, a good man really, a decent man, six feet under.

She's been holding it back so long, just there, tucked in the corner of her heart, but one look, one harsh word from him and she's drowning in it.

And she's furious. She's heartbroken and scared and furious because what does it mean that he can still affect her this way, can break her heart a million ways to Sunday without even knowing he held it in the first place? Without even asking for it.

She feels the lump in her throat tremble and shakes and she thinks this is probably going to be what finally does it. This will be the proverbial straw because she's strong, oh Elsie Hughes is stronger than most give her credit for, but this has all been too much, has plucked against strings already too taught and she can feel them snapping now. She can only hold back the tide for so long, after all. At the end of it, she's just a woman, a silly woman who gave without being asked and is now paying the price.

No, there's nothing for it. She's seen him again, against her greatest wishes, and now it's a scab picked, a scar torn open and Elsie knows all about those, is resigned to what's about to bowl her over.

Still, in one last, feeble attempt, she raises her hands to her lips to cover their trembling. Closes her eyes.

She waits.

"What on earth was that?!" Glenna huffs, letting the door slam behind her.

Elsie doesn't answer, she stands there stock-still and Glenna briefly wonders if she might faint, as pale as she is.

"Elsie?" She tries again, softer, but her sister's lost to the world. Staring blankly, her eyes wide and misty.

"I—" She says, gestures helplessly, grasping at nothing.

Glenna takes her hand.

"What is it, puss? What's happened? Did he hurt you?"

Elsie wrinkles her brow, shakes her head. Once. Twice. Squeezes Glenna's hand before sinking into an empty chair, the one just across from where he had been.

Glenna sees it before she hears it, much like lightning before the storm. She'd recognize that wrinkling nose, the quivering lip anywhere, has seen it countless times when they were children with scraped knees or banged heads, but she's never seen it since they've both grown, not once.

But as the tears fall in sheets from Elsie's wide blue eyes Glenna is taken right back. Back to when Elsie was just a little lass, the tiniest thing, and their mam a bit too rough, their father a little too deep in his glass. Shattered dishes and shouting and Glenna holding Elsie right against her chest, humming nonsense lullabies, pressing her palms against tiny ears to shield them.

Glenna pulls her close now, presses her head to her chest and strokes her cheeks, her back, and arms, tries to soothe her with nonsense words.

She thinks of all the ways that Elsie has far surpassed what anyone had expected of the little Hughes girls. Farmer's daughters with bedraggled plaits and bruises under buttoned sleeves, skinnier than any children had the right to be. She thinks of the summer Becky'd come along and the ways they'd worked together to protect her, taken hits and whips and fists. Thinks of the way they visit her now, once a month on Sunday, and how Elsie's always the strong one. Always the one with the smile and the kind words. How she, Glenna, is always the one who cries on the way home. Who holds Elsie's hand for support.

Elsie is not strong now, not just at this moment, and leans into Glenna where she's crouched there beside her, burrows her wet cheek and running nose against Glenna's collar and weeps, and Glenna can feel her heart shatter, splinter in the old familiar places, where she's failed before. She feels Elsie shudder, and she can't stop her own tears from falling as she takes what she can, tries to hold this deep hurt she can't understand as it's hurtled toward her. She kisses her sister's brow with trembling lips and thinks of all the ways she hasn't been all she should have for her sisters. Glenna breaks for the ways she can't mend.

"Shhh." She says, brushing the few tears from her own eyes that have fallen. "That's alright then. You go right ahead and cry."

It's a half-hour before Elsie sobers up, blows her nose a final time in the ruined hanky she'd had stuffed in her sleeve and lifts her head from Glenna's shoulder with a groan.

"God, as if my head hadn't been aching enough." She says, presses a hand to her head and closes her eyes.

"I feel like I can barely see straight now."

Even with her eyes closed, Elsie can feel Glenna's calculating glare.

"You want to tell me what this is all about then?" Glenna asks with a wince as she moves to stand. She pulls the chair forward that Mr. Carson had been sitting in and faces her sister.

Elsie looks down at her hands, twists her hanky.

"It's nothing." She whispers.

"Oh, it's nothing," Glenna says, can't believe how bloody bullheaded this little mite has grown to be. "that's why you've just spent a half hour of our valuable pie-making time bawling into my shoulder over a hulking stranger. I suppose that's what he was right? A stranger?"

She looks pointedly at Elsie, who is studiously avoiding her gaze, can feel the pain in her chest radiating through her at the thought of him, at the realization that yes, in many ways, he was a stranger to her now.

Let it lie, Glenna."

"Oh, I think probably not. Not after that little display."

"You've no idea—no right—it's fine."

"No right? After a half-hour crouched on the floor serving as your spare snot rag?"

"I said it's fine," Elsie repeats, feeling rather stupid, but unwilling to give, to tell what she can barely make sense of herself.

"Well, that's cleared it all up then, thanks very much."

Glenna's voice is laden with sarcasm that makes Elsie cringe. She's getting angry now. Glenna never could toe a line, she had to stomp all over it, obliterate it.

"Great," Elsie says, the venom in her voice made slightly less effective by the way her nose is plugged from crying.

"Fine," Glenna says.

"Bloody fantastic."

Elsie sighs in frustration over the sound of Glenna's breathy laugh, dabbing at the few more traitorous tears that have escaped. Elsie bites her lip, despite the thousands of times Glenna's told her she's going to gnaw it off one of these days.

"You wouldn't understand." She says.

"Oh, I just might," Glenna replies. "Try me."

"Well, I... used to know him — Mr. Carson." Elsie begins, and Glenna rolls her eyes so hard Elsie is half-convinced she'll never see straight again.

"I'm not that slow on the uptake, puss. Do you think I'd ever have left you alone with a strange man? Especially one of his stature? I think decidedly not!"

Elsie tilts her head. She hadn't considered that, doesn't even really remember Glenna's leaving them at all.

"No, I suppose not," Elsie says, and Glenna nudges her shoulder.

"All right then. So you knew him. Know him. Why'd he run out of here like he was being chased?"

Tears spring up again and Elsie raises her hand to cover her mouth.

"I don't know."

Glenna considers her.

"Are you being honest or evasive?" She finally says and Elsie chokes out a sorry laugh.

"Honest. I could guess, but it's all speculative. I've no idea. Perhaps the shock? Mr. Carson hates change. Hates surprise."

"He didn't hate the sight of you leaning over his lap, I'll tell you that," Glenna says, and Elsie barks an earnest laugh this time.

"How ridiculous." She manages between little chuckles, and she's not sure why she's laughing now except she feels as if she's been on an emotional carnival ride, up, down and spun around— is feeling a little hysterical if she's honest.

"No, I'm sure he was on his half-day and running late. And I'd shocked him of course..." she trails off, pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and considers.

Glenna cocks a brow.

"And this led to the absolute flood I just witnessed."

Elsie looks tentatively at Glenna from the corner of her eye.

"Seeing him just stirred something in me, I suppose. Something I thought I'd buried when I left Yorkshire. It's only that I miss it sometimes, that's all. I wonder sometimes if I made the wrong choice."

Elsie spots the hurt look that passes over Glenna's features and reaches her hand out, lays it over her sister's arm.

"Not being here with you. Never that. You know I love you and Arthur, Becky, and Maggie when I get to see her, but I'm getting on, Glenna, and now I'm a widow with a farm I can't plow and animals I can't feed, and sometimes I think about what my life could have been if I'd gone the other way. It was a moment of weakness, that's all, of me being a silly old fool. Seeing Mr. Carson only reminded me of that other path, at Downton, that's all."

Elsie watches her sister watch her and silently prays she's said enough, that she's given Glenna enough of the truth, a version of what's real and present and eating away at her heart, that she'll let it alone.

There's a beat of silence where Glenna draws in a deep breath and Elsie is terrified for a moment that she won't, won't let it lie and Elsie will have to spill the whole sorry tale of her one-sided, sinful, pathetic desire for a man who only had room in his heart for long hours and impeccable service, who apparently hated her now, couldn't stand the sight of her, was sorry he ended up in her presence, while she was still, infuriatingly, intoxicated by the rumble of his voice and the sternness of his brow, by the sheer bulk of him so close to her. A man who made her a fool again and again.

"Alright then," Glenna says, finally, but Elsie can tell by the tone of her voice its an act of mercy, a concession.

"Shall we finish the pies?" She asks, forcing cheer into her voice, already up and moving toward the sink again, ready to wash and peel and anything to keep Glenna from looking at her too closely, to keep herself from becoming too fixated, introspective. She had to get through this day one way or another, after all.

"Sure, puss," Glenna says after a moment. "Let's finish the pies."

Alone in her bed, Elsie stares up at the ceiling and replays the afternoon over and over again in her mind.

She hasn't been drinking tonight. Not a drop. Not even when Glenna offered sherry after dinner, no, tonight she couldn't bear it, can't stand the thought of being fuzzy around the edges, silly with laughter and tears. She wants a clear head.

She can't will herself to drown the pain because there's some sick part of her that believes that if she feels it as clearly and acutely as possible it makes her closer to him. It's a new hurt, and Elsie's been drowning old ones for so long. She wonders if it perhaps isn't better to take her own advice, to let them lie, perhaps eventually stitch them up, let them heal.

"She bites her lip in the darkness and tries to put a name to what it is she's feeling now, but finds it difficult to nail down, more tangled than it was in the morning sun of her sister's kitchen, watching him leave. The best she can do is empty. Elsie feels empty, used up, depleted, drained. It is a hollow ache that consumes her.

She thinks she might feel angry if she had the energy. At herself. At him. At Joe and the farm and the senselessness of it all.

She is not a fool. Elsie has never been anyone's fool and yet here she finds herself again, staring up at the ceiling from her lonely bed and considering. Considering him and his stern brow and his harsh voice and perhaps the way he'd closed his eyes at her touch, the way those same eyes had dipped and flashed when he'd said her married name.

She doesn't know what to make of it at all. She wonders if his ire is due to the fact they'd not kept in touch; she hadn't written him as she'd said she would. But he couldn't have imagined that would work, could he? What would they have to speak of? And how odd would it seem to carry on such a correspondence when she was happily married and far away.

Those were the reasons she'd concocted, of course, that kept the guilt at bay when she'd suddenly think of something amusing she'd like to share with him, taste a particularly good wine or read a good book. Joe didn't care about those things. He was a simple man. Mr. Carson was decidedly not.

Still, she can't imagine he'd be that cross with her over absent letters. After all, he'd never written her either.

Of course, she muses, I had the advantage of being very familiar with his address.

Her half-amused grin at the thought quickly fades.

He certainly knows where to find me now, she thinks, or how to avoid me, more like. He had made his distaste for her quite clear.

She thinks again of that confusing look he'd had before he'd stormed out, anger to be sure, but he'd almost looked hurt, hurt in a way that she thought, could almost convince herself if she squints and tilts her head just right, mirrored her own.

She purses her lips, considers this.

She only wishes that perhaps that hadn't been the very last time she'd see him. It was painful, to be sure, to think the last time, when they'd parted ways in Yorkshire, was so full of heartache and regret and such pathetic, unrequited want on her part, but she thinks their confusing, frustrating interaction this afternoon is decidedly worse. There was certainly no tenderness there, after all.

She'd only held him for a moment, but it was enough to remind her she never wanted to let go, that her turncoat feelings dwelt deeper than want. That she very much craved to be tender with him. The thought pokes at her already aching heart and provokes a mean little part of her beneath her exhaustion that's still so very angry.

"Move on, you daft old cow." She says aloud because she knows better than anyone there's no one there to hear it. "No man is worth it. Especially not a senseless, careless, bloody obtuse bull in a china shop."

"Especially not one who doesn't want you. Can't stand the sight of you." She finishes, swallowing her tears.

She is not this weak. She isn't.

If she could have chosen their last meeting, it wouldn't have transpired as it did, to be sure, but she was foolish to think she'd be getting another chance, foolish to hope it. 

It's time to forget.

Fine, she seethes. Still entirely unsure who she's angry with. She hopes she never sees him again. Never.

Elsie pounds her pillow once with a closed fist and turns over to her side. She squeezes her eyes shut and wills herself to fall asleep.

It isn't long before her will triumphs and Elsie slips into a black, dreamless sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

"Are you going to tell me what the problem is then?"

Carson doesn't look up from the wine list he's perusing.

"I don't know what you mean."

Beryl doesn't bother to hold back her incredulous grunt.

"Right and I'm Princess Mary."

He does look up at her then, at least, through those big bushy brows that are forever unkempt.

She flashes him a winning grin, bats her eyes.

He harrumphs and returns to his list.

"That's all right then. I'll invite myself to sit since you're fixed on being so rude."

She can see his lips purse at that, that vein in his forehead thumping away as it always does when he's vexed. She knows her friend, knows the very last thing he'd want to be is rude or improper.

She sits across from him, folds her hands in her lap, waits.

Eventually, he sighs.

"What is it, Mrs. Patmore?"

"Well," she pretends to think, tapping her chin. "I've been here all of a week, helping Mrs. Johnson with this bloody great dinner, and for the entirety of that time all I've seen is you stomp around, bellow at the hallboys, and shut yourself in this pantry."

To her surprise his brows unknit slightly, his expression open and earnest.

"And is that so out of character?"

She considers this.

"Well, not entirely, I s'pose, but it is a little different, Mr. Carson. It's just, well, I've never seen you look so worn around the edges, so down. At least not since..."

She trails off, wrings her hands.

Neither of them has to say what she means. Since Elsie left. Since he'd walked around in a fog for weeks, alternately fuming at and icy cold toward everyone in his path.

He leans back in his chair. Suddenly even more grateful that Mr. Thompson has allowed him to co-op the Butler's pantry.

He considers telling her for a moment, this dear friend of his, of theirs. Certainly, she would want to know Elsie is near-by, accessible. He shouldn't deny her that, really, it's cruel. And besides, he feels almost fit to burst. He is astonished to find he'd rather like to tell the whole sorry tale to someone, and it might as well be Beryl as she's here and willing.

"Well, I suppose it could owe to the fact I've…bumped into her."

"You never did!"

And he's grateful she doesn't ask who because he doesn't think he can manage Mrs. Burns without spitting it.

He nods solemnly.

"I did."

Beryl blinks once, twice. Of all the things she'd expected him to say, this was not one of them.

Of course, she knew Elsie was in Scotland, she even had a vague idea of where, but the woman had virtually disappeared of the face of God's green earth when she'd left. Not a single letter. Not a peep. Beryl had been nursing that hurt herself for a while, one could see it in the blistered ears of her kitchen maids.

"Well, I never. What was it like?"

Carson furrows his brow. How on Earth is he to explain the multitude of emotions and feelings his been through in the last week, from seeing her standing in her sister's kitchen, so fetching in her practical attire and rolled sleeves, a spot of flour on the tip of her nose, to his burning realization that she'd left them, him, to become this new person, this pie-baking farmers wife, with the endearing thickened brogue and pink cheeks.

Same sad blue eyes though. Same heaviness about her smile.

"Odd." He finally settles on.

"Oh, I've no doubt. What did she say?"

He tries to think.

"Not much really. I don't think I gave her much of a chance, to be honest. I was so shocked, Mrs. Patmore. Shocked and hurt."

They are equally surprised by his frankness. He can't look in her eyes and she does him the courtesy of averting her gaze as well.

"I would've been the same," she offers. "Not sure where she gets off disappearing like that. Never writing."

Carson gives her a weak smile. Pats his legs. Leans forward again.

"So, that explains my sorry mood, which I should apologize for, I suppose- "

But Beryl cuts him off with a wave of her hand, a sniffle.

"Was she well?"

Carson doesn't want to dwell on the circles he'd seen under her eyes or the hollowness of her cheeks.

"Seemed to be."

"Well enough to write, then," she says, and his heart breaks a little for the tears that fall on her folded hands, for he understands them perfectly, has shed a few himself.

He sighs.

"Maybe we shall simply have to accept that we did not know Mrs. Hughes as well as we thought, Mrs. Patmore. Perhaps not well at all."

He is speaking as much to himself as to her and he watches as she nods, swallows thickly.

She notes the tension in his face abating, his pulse no longer beating through his skin.

"Perhaps not," she finally agrees.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When she sees a woman in the village that Friday that looks so much like Elsie she's taken aback, she knows instantly it must be the sister Mr. Carson has told her about, when pressed, when she demanded further details from him and he'd reluctantly given a few, this is the maniac biker.

She's taller than Elsie, certainly, looks like a bloody giant to Beryl, and perhaps a little thinner through the hip, but she's the sister, Beryl's sure.

Beryl watches as she speaks to a woman at the door of the village tea shop, she's got a basket with her, is smiling and chatting amiably. Blessedly, there's no bike in sight.

Beryl trots just a bit closer, begins making a slow show of looking in the shop windows as she goes, gets close enough to hear their lilting conversation.

"Aye, if I can pry her out of that farmhouse we will be there. You know how stubborn she is though. Bloody mule."

The two women laugh, and Beryl bites her cheek because she's also quite familiar with the ass in question.

"Oh, the fair will be great fun. Come for the dancing if nothing else. She'll have no shortage of partners now, I'm sure. Especially with those folks up at the castle. There's bound to be a few strangers in the crowd." The other woman, the not-sister says, and there's a levity to it that Beryl doesn't quite understand.

"I suppose not. Well, at least between Arthur and your John we will have her fixed for two. She'll have to stay more than a moment."

The not-sister nods emphatically.

"I'll see what I can do then," the tall woman says, "to remind her that she used to have fun, be fun, once. When we were lasses."

Not-sister looks a bit sad when she replies.

"Right you are, Glenna."

Glenna smiles back the same sad smile and Beryl begins to wonder in earnest what she's missing here. Was there something wrong with Elsie? Had something terrible happened? She'd probably never describe Elsie as fun, per se, but she had a fair bit of wit about her, a biting humor. Had she lost that here in her homeland? Had something taken it away?

Beryl is torn between worry for her once-friend and indignant hurt that she clearly wasn't friend enough to confide in, to even speak to.

"Bless you, Bess. I'll haul her out by her hair if I have to. I'll see you tomorrow." Glenna says, and both women give a laugh before Glenna turns on her heel, brushes past Beryl without a second glance.

"Excuse me?"

Beryl startles, looks over to the woman in the doorway of the tea shop, Bess, as she addresses her.

"Can I help you with anything? Are you lost?"

Beryl shakes her head no, then takes in the woman's face. Her greying hair is knotted neatly, her wide green eyes seem earnest in their inquiry.

"Actually, I couldn't help but overhear about a fair..."

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Beryl keeps her knowledge about the fair to herself for a few hours, deciding the best way she might broach the subject with Mr. Carson.

She understands his hurt, she does, truly, because she feels it herself, but she also understands that none of them can go on like this. She can tell that beneath his brooding and blustering, whatever interaction he'd had with Elsie has broken his heart just that bit further, and they can't leave it like that. No, he needs one last meeting, a happy memory. It will do them all a world of good.

And, if she happens to be presented with the opportunity to tell off Elsie herself? Well, that'll just the cream on top, won't it?

She doesn't know how she'll convince him to give the staff a night off, to go to the fair himself without the help of Mary Queen of Scots, but she means to try.

Squaring her shoulders, she knocks firmly, once, and then enters the pantry.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Absolutely not," he says.

He is pacing the worn wooden floor now, and Beryl watches him with a raised brow.

"Why not? The lot of them will be dining away that night. What harm could it do?"

He looks at her sideways, continues pacing.

"I think we could all use a little break, don't you? Some fresh Scottish air?"

She studies the way his brow stitches when she mentions the Scottish air but doesn't comment.

"Is there some particular reason you'd want to avoid it, Mr. Carson?"

They haven't spoken candidly of Elsie since that first day, in fact, he had withdrawn even further since then. Beryl hadn't realized how much the tenor of his voice was a part of the background noise she associated with her job until it had ceased almost entirely.

"No, of course not." He says quickly, straightening himself to his full height, looking down his nose at her.

Beryl doesn't flinch, doesn't move from her seat. She tries to channel Elsie's resolute determination when dealing with him. She waits, raises an eyebrow expectantly, gestures for him to continue.

"I— "he says, finally. Looks away. Back at her. "Very well, you and the others may go, but I will stay behind here. Hold things down."

She looks at him incredulously.

"Hold what down, exactly?"

He flutters his hands about.

"You know. Things."

She arches a brow. Plays her ace.

"You mean to tell me that you intend to let your staff, comprised of many unmarried men and women, attend a country dance— a foreign one at that— without any sort of supervision?"

He blusters at that.

"Well, I— they will have you!"

Oh, he must be desperate, she thinks.

"Oh no, I'll not be going if you don't. What would I have to say to those twittering fools? I'm twice their age and four times most of their wits. No, if you stay, I stay, but I do think it cruel to deny them a bit of fun when we've all worked so hard and pulled off such a fabulous dinner without a hitch."

He sighs and she can see she's getting to him now.

"Go on, just talk to his lordship. If he says no, we will say no more about it. If he says yes, well, we might have a very nice evening indeed. A way to wish Scotland a fond farewell."

She can see the gears turning in his mind, weighing his options, the costs.

"Fine," he says finally, and Beryl feels a little shock of delight run through her that she's actually gone and done it — won an argument with Himself, even if she half-knows it's still because of her in the long run.

"Excellent." She says, standing. "Let me know what he says, though I'm confident it will be yes, and then we will have a fine evening tomorrow, I'm sure."

Beryl bustles out of his pantry before he can change his mind. A nervous smile lights her features as she returns to the kitchen. Now she only hopes Glenna's able to harness her own mule.


	8. Chapter 8

Carson's stomach has been churning all day, since their little conversation.

Mrs. Patmore had offered him a bit of ginger before bed, but he had denied her.

It wasn't that kind of sick.

For a week now he has been lying in his bed at night, just as he is now, listening to the gentle creaks of the great house, the occasional muffled grunt or snore from the neighboring male staff, so easy to hear through paper-thin walls. When he closes his eyes all he can see is a flickering montage, like the shuddering frames of the moving pictures, of all the times they've come together, crashed apart.

He thinks of the many insensitive moments he's had. He thinks even more of all the gentle looks they'd shared, the barely-there touches, the whispered words, and light laughter. He dwells on all the ways he's never understood her.

Her with her soft spot for spindly maids with mussed tresses and sallow cheeks, her fierce denial of pity or help of any kind, her damned determination to work everything out for herself, her subtle but clear decree that she is not to be trifled with, her awe-striking wit, her careful cool, her insistence on maintaining proprietary distance from their –  _his_  – employers.

They are so different in so many ways, and yet, he sees glimmers there, of ways in which they fit together just right, ways he'd come to rely upon her easy grace and charm. Her unassuming beauty.

He sighs.

His stomach flips.

It's likely she'll be there tomorrow, he supposes, among the villagers and revel makers. It's likely he'll be confronted with her again, probably on the arm of Joe Burns.

His brow gives a gentle crease in the darkness of his room. He folds his hands across his stomach. Stares blankly to the pitch-black night through the window, where the stars have yet to reignite since the night she left.

He supposes it's all for the best, really.

Who was he to be this angry, to harbor this hurt, when he had no right to her? When Joe Burns to could tend to her heart in ways that he was forbidden. Who could fault her for choosing a man who could fulfill her in the ways he has lacked?

He's been so hurt, so desperately desolate, that he had not really considered this. He has assumed himself the better choice, the obvious conclusion, but he has realized now that this assumption makes him a fool.

He realizes now that he would do well to let her go – to see her at the fair tomorrow evening and tip his hat, shake Joe's hand. It would save them both worlds of unpleasantness if he cut the faulty lines he'd tried to tie between his heart and hers.

Carson raises his fingers to his eyes, presses gently, wills himself to maintain composure.

It is time for him to stop shedding tears for Elsie Hughes. She had made her choice, and when he considers it as he has now, carefully and at length, he realizes it has been the correct one.

Whatever happens, he cares firstly for her happiness, which is obviously comprised of an easy freedom and commonality they'd never have had together.

He breathes a shaky sigh.

For a week now, for months before, he has mourned a life he wasn't aware he desired so acutely until it had slipped away, but he has been in mourning long enough.

Tomorrow, he will go to the fair. He will do what is only good and proper and attend to his staff, escort Mrs. Patmore. He will shake Mr. Burns extended hand, and he will  _not_  covet his wife.

* * *

"I'm not going to the bloody fair and that's final," Elsie says.

She's bustling around her own kitchen, clearing away her and Glenna's afternoon tea. She can't stand this side of Glenna really, and it's been out in full-force for the last two weeks. It's all big-sister pomp and makes her feel like a scrawny girl again, with scraped knees and missing front teeth.

"Oh, don't be like that, Els. You need to get out of this house. Summer's here in full force and you should be out enjoying it with the rest of us. You can't stay cooped up in here forever."

Elsie purses her lips, places her teaspoon in the large sink with a clang that makes Glenna cringe.

"Perhaps not, but I am certainly old enough to decide when I don't want to attend a silly fair. And I don't. So, I won't."

She grabs at the tea towel with a force that makes it snap.

"Does it delight you to be so difficult?"

"Perhaps it does."

"C'mon, puss."

"I've asked you not to call me that, thank you."

"Oh, I  _beg_  your pardon,  _Elspeth_."

Elsie can feel the fury bubbling up in her chest, and honestly, she's glad for it, could use a feeling other than the dreadful, hollow sadness that's been plaguing her for a week now – longer, if she's honest, which she usually is, just maybe not about this particular thing, this one deep hurt.

"You are  _such_  a child," she says, mostly because she can't think of anything else to say that won't incriminate her in childish behavior as well.

"Perhaps," Glenna concedes, "but better to be full of hope and wonder than ugly bitterness that makes me a misery to be around."

That hits Elsie square in the chest and her breath stutters.

"Is – is that what you truly think of me? A misery? A burdensome crone?"

Elsie is turned so that she cannot see Glenna's softened gaze, her little sigh.

"I think you're half the lass I once knew."

Stupidly, Elsie feels tears well up in her eyes, a thick knot in her throat.

"Well then," she manages "you're better off at the fair without me."

Glenna looks heavenward as if pleading for patience.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

Glenna walks closer to where Elsie stands by the counter, looking out the window. The sun is just beginning to sink, and if she can't get her to start changing, they'll never make the fair, the merry, summer dance, and she so wants them to, wants to see her sister come alive again.

Glenna gingerly lays her hand on Elsie's shoulder – she's feeling helpless again. There's always been this tangled web between them. For all the ways they get on so well, mirror each other in infinite ways, Glenna has never understood the best way to comfort and care for her stronger-than-barn-nails little sister, has never understood the depth of her moods or the breadth of her stubborn streak. She doesn't make things easy on herself, her sweet Elsie. She doesn't make it easy on anyone really, with her high standards and exacting attitude. She is a force to be reckoned with and Glenna so often finds herself at a loss for how to effectively do so.

"Els, please. I only meant that a night out might distract you. You've been walking around here like a ghost for long enough. The village misses you.  _I_  miss you."

For once, Elsie chooses not to argue. Not to play coy and defensive and tell her sister that she's right  _here,_ to insist that she is  _fine_ , wants—needs for nothing. Seeing Mr. Carson again has burned away the last vestiges of her energy to keep up her guarded veneer and she is so  _tired_  of feeling unhappy, of nursing this pathetic hurt. Truth be told, she misses herself too.

Biting her lip, she considers. Glenna's light touch on her shoulder is enough to keep her anchored, to remind her that she does, in fact, enjoy the company of others on occasion. That she has not always been this angry, this short and unpleasant.

Her life is so different now, and she feels as if she's been dancing a reel already, as if she's been spinning round and round, and clinging tightly, desperately to the fragile string that is her tie to Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper with stern glances and cutting words, with impeccable standards and little laughter, with a shameful desperate love for a Butler who'd never given her a second glance, not really, not in any way that mattered.

And for what?

But she knows. Has spent enough nights staring blankly at her ceiling with no company but her own thoughts to know exactly why she's made the choices she has.

She has done it in a desperate attempt to avoid losing herself in this new-old life, to prevent herself fully becoming this new person, this  _Mrs. Burns_  that she never really wanted, that she didn't agree with, that she only grasped at because it was a way out of the torture of waiting for someone who would never come around.

Perhaps it was best to let go of them both, Mrs. Hughes and the other – maybe it was time to rediscover Elsie – the farm lass with the will of steel and easy smile. Maybe it was time to relearn a step or two, to revel in the moonlight with her family and friends and forget about all that heavy guilt and pain she's been carrying for  _no reason_. Perhaps it is time to create her own freedom, to define herself in the warmth of the summer air and the twist of her hips, the swishing of her new, lighter skirts.

"All right," she says, finally, grateful that Glenna has allowed her to work this out for herself, allowed her a moment's peace to really think. She covers Glenna's hand with her own, turns, gives a soft smile that she allows to reach her eyes – she hopes it does.

"Thank you."

Glenna smiles back, her golden eyes twinkling in the light of the setting sun.

"You're welcome, puss. Shall we dress then?"

Elsie sighs, stifling the butterflies whose wings are beating rapidly in her belly, against her ribs.

"We shall."

* * *

The lights at the fair are bright and hot, as is the tent where they are all standing at the edge of the dance floor.

There are stalls and games and some of the younger ones have already run off in that direction, more than prepared to lose a healthy portion of their meager wage on such foolishness.

She has not seen him yet, of that much he's sure.

He's sure because he has spotted her straight away and she is fairly occupied in the arms of a handsome older gentleman who is currently spinning her around with vigor. She looks beautiful, of course. Her hair is done up, but it's loose and carefree, little wisps have escaped and are dancing about her face themselves. Her dress is new. Or at least one he's never seen before, not ever, at Downton. It's soft and gauzy and the perfect blue.

And she is laughing.

She is laughing that delightful, tinkling, laugh that is genuine.

He can't help the stab he feels even as the corners of his lips twitch upward.

"Are you going to talk to her then?"

Beryl is hard to hear over the general din of the tent, especially since he finds that she is so far south of where his ears are. He considered pretending that he didn't hear her, but that would last all of a second before she was shouting up at him. And besides, he was done with all that now. Shuttering himself off. He has nothing to hide anymore. Has tucked his hurt neatly away and decided he is done with it.

And he is.

Really.

"Of course," he says amiably. "It would be rude if we didn't at least say hello."

Beryl snorts and he gives her a disapproving look that she ignores.

"Rude is not writing your friends for a bloody year. She doesn't deserve a word from us and make no mistake."

Carson raises his brow. They are both watching her dance now, like some absurd espionage duo who aren't particularly set on not being discovered, who are, in fact, rather hoping to be.

"This was your idea, Mrs. Patmore," he says, and she snorts again.

"I suppose it was. Oh, look. She's finishing up now. Go over."

Carson looks at her, mouth slightly agape.

"Me? Why don't you go?"

"Not bloody likely. If I go over there, I'm liable to give her a right piece of my mind and it won't be a pretty piece, I assure you."

"Be that as it may, none of this was my idea. I didn't want to go to this blasted fair in the first place. I don't even like to dance outside of the Abbey!"

"And here's me hoping you'd saved me a dance on your card." She tuts.

"You're being impossible." He says, turns his gaze back to the crowd, only to make immediate eye contact with the subject of their deliberations.

The noise dims down to nothing as he looks at her, gazing at him from across the tent. Her face is inscrutable, neither happy nor sad, and he suddenly feels frozen, can't remember the promises he's made himself or even what he's supposed to be doing right now.

He vaguely feels Mrs. Patmore brush past him, hears her say something about Elsie coming to her if she deigns her worthy of a civil word.

Still, he feels like there's something he's meant to be doing.

He watches dumbly as Elsie raises her hand in a half-wave.

He can remember the feel of her fingers between his. The soft smoothness of her palm.

And this is not how this is supposed to be going at all, but for the life of him, he can't remember why.

When he doesn't return her wave immediately, she puts her hand down to her side, breaks their stare, gives a little frown. She is turning back to her friends now, her hand sliding through the crook of Glenna's arm, who is paying her no mind, is talking animatedly to a woman with silver hair and a bright smile.

He sees her excuse herself a moment later, slipping away from her sister, who gives her cheek an absent kiss and making her way through the crowd of people toward the dark space between tents and stalls.

He wants to follow her, badly. Wants nothing more than to go after her, but wouldn't that be cheating? He remembers now - his agreement with himself. She is not his to look after. If anyone should be following her it's Joe.

Carson looks around then, only just realizing that he actually hasn't seen the man yet. He would still like to shake his hand. To congratulate him as he should have at the wedding, instead of making eyes at his wife.

His hurt has been buried and he is disgusted with himself. Determined to make it right.

He walks a bit through the crowd. Makes his way to the drink station.

There are people milling about here. Men clapping each other on the back, making rude jokes, commenting on the prettiness of the women. He is trying to figure out the best way to insinuate himself into the conversation, to see if there is some way he can ask about the whereabouts of Joe Burns.

"It's a shame she left when she did, eh? She was a bit o' raspberry back then."

"Oh, aye. Still is. She and her sister both. If Arthur hadn't grabbed the eldest up so quick, I would've been making my play, make no mistake."

"Right, you talk as if you weren't already engaged to Fiona by then. She'd have beat you over the head with a rolling pin for a second glance!"

The men all erupt in laughter at this.

"I always thought that Elsie was the finer of the two, in truth. Those blue eyes, and hips made to make a man give a second glance. She would've made an excellent little broodmare if she'd stuck around for more than a minute. Built for bearing children, that one."

Carson begins to see red, tries to remind himself that her honor is of no concern to him.

"It's a pity Joe couldn't hold onto her all those years ago. Couldn't keep up with her wild spirit let alone tame her."

"Aye, only to somehow manage to capture her all these years later and then up and die. What a waste. She still has spunk left in her, that one. If I weren't a married man…"

The man trails off and they all nudge him, laugh, agree.

Carson can't see through the red before his eyes now, is utterly unsure what he's feeling aside from furious, disbelieving. The men's vile conversation alone was enough to make his blood boil, but he can't deny what he's just heard, what's just been revealed to him by these brutes. He feels pushed, once again, over the edge. Can't seem to stop finding edges to teeter over with shock or grief or hurt or anger. His stomach has jumped to his throat and he thinks he might genuinely be sick now because  _how_?

How could Joe be dead? How could she not have told him? How could she have withheld it when it was so vital, when it made all the difference in the world?

He is pushing past people now, trying to get air, feeling as if he can't take a deep breath.

When he breaks through the line of the stalls, far enough out that the laughter and the music are muffled and far way, he bends over, puts his hands on his knees. He takes a few deep breaths and tries not to heave.

He is vaguely aware that he is making some sort of noise, something between a sigh and a whine and he thinks he might be having some sort of fit. He has never felt so many emotions in his life as he has the past months – thinks he may be making up for the lost time.

"Mr. Carson! Mr. Carson, are you alright?"

He can't bring himself to turn, can only close his eyes, because damn if she isn't the last person he can deal with right now.

Within moments, her person follows her voice and she is with him. Her hands on his back, patting, smoothing, squeezing his shoulder through his jacket.

He wants to pluck her hand away. Wants to continue this way just so she will never leave.

He is still so very angry.

How can she make him want her so? Him and apparently half the town.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he rasps, his voice is cold and deadly and even to himself, he sounds intimidating, angry, volatile.

"Tell you what?" she whispers, moving her hand away, folding it neatly with the other across her waist.

"Don't play coy with me!" he snaps. "He's dead! The man is dead!"

Elsie's eyes widen, her lips purse.

"I don't see how it's any of your business. Besides, you didn't give me much of a chance! You ran out of Glenna's kitchen as if I had burned you!"

She takes a step forward. Her tone is matching his, her ire rising to meet, to play. She looks up at him with a familiar glare that dares him to disagree with her.

He dares.

"I didn't give  _you_  a chance? I'm sorry, have you become suddenly illiterate? Unable to pick up a pen perhaps? Forgetful of where you placed your stamps for over a year?!"

He is towering over her, his breathing is harsh and he can see how it disturbs the little loose tendrils he'd been admiring earlier.

She has sharp dashes of red on her cheeks, as she always does when she's angry and her lips are pursed in a way that annoys him to no end, a way that makes him want to set them right.

"To what? Tell my old work colleagues that my new beginning was for naught? That my husband is dead, and I've barely shed a tear?"

The last part of her statement hits him in a way he knows he will have to examine later, but his focus is primarily on putting her in her place, which is one of wrongness. She needs to stand there and accept her faults and then lie with them just like the rest of bloody humanity.

"We were more than that and you know it!" he exclaims.

"Were we?!" she retorts, and she is nearly on her tiptoes now, trying to look him in the eye, trying to show him she's not and has never been intimidated by his ridiculous shows of power and prowess. She can match him tit for tat and, by God, he will know it! "You certainly never said,  _Mr. Carson_!"

She spits his name, makes a desperate little gesture in his face to illustrate her point, and he grabs her wrist because he will not have her slapping him and if she thinks she will, she's got another thing coming.

"There are rules for a reason." He hisses, his hand still holding hers aloft, she still on her toes, and he can see every detail of her this close, can see every familiar line, the white tips of her teeth as she pulls her lip beneath them.

"And we all know you are nothing if not a staunch protector of the rules, Mr. Carson. The rules and nothing else. Who even knows if there's a heart that beats beneath that stiff livery! My money is on the negative," she sneers, and that does it. That just bloody does it.

With a swift jerk on her wrist he's still holding, he pulls her against him and crashes his lips down upon hers. It's awkward at first, the angle, the way she sinks down on her heels and he has to follow her, but soon she catches up and she is giving as good as she's getting.

Tit for tat.

Her hand is fisting in his lapel, sliding down his jacket, beneath, pulling at his waistcoat, gripping and releasing along his side, pulling him closer, and he is humming his pleasure into her mouth as her lips part and his tongue slides swiftly between them. He is nipping gently at the full bottom lip that's teased him for years and then moving to kiss gently down her chin, the underside of her jaw, back to her lips again where he lays it all upon her: the hurt, the anger, the desperate want.

She is moaning now, sweet little keening noises that are driving him mad and he can't stop his hand from roaming down her side to her hip, gently tracing the dip of her waist through the fabric of her dress and corset, can't keep it from circling behind her as low as he dares, pulling her against him further, pressing them together until he's got one thigh between hers and is all but holding her up. Neither notices that he still holds her wrist immobile in his other hand.

He's half-aware of someone repeatedly taking the Lord's name in vain in hot, harsh whispers, and he thinks it might be him, but he can't be bothered as he nips at her earlobe, runs his teeth along the softness of it and earns himself a choked mewl, feels her hips jerk against his thigh, making him growl in response.

He is gathering her impossibly closer, one hand at the base of her skull, toying lightly with the hair there. And as he is burning a hot trail of kisses down her neck, highly frustrated by the collar of her dress, he feels her grip change, feels her pushing instead of pulling and he is suddenly brought back, remembers painfully who they are and where they are and,  _gods_ , what they've just been  _doing_  out behind the tents where anyone could have found them, and –  _oh, Christ, oh, fuck_  – she's a recent widow for all he knows, and he has taken terrible advantage.

"I – I am sorry," he's spluttering, thrusting her away from him, straightening his clothes. "I am so sorry, Mrs. – El—I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me."

He can't think straight, just now. What a terrible cad she must think him. What a miserable, vile, old man.

He can see it in the way she is shaking her head at him, the glassiness of her eyes in the full summer moon, the way she presses her hand over her mouth and chokes back a sob.

He reaches out a hand to—what? He isn't sure. Steady her perhaps? Show her that he is incredibly sorry, that he has never meant any harm to her ever, is so broken over  _it all._

When she backs away from him, her head still shaking, he hates himself as much as he ever has, because while he's been painting himself as someone who might come closer to deserving her than Joe Burns, he is entirely worse, completely undeserving.

She stares at him a moment longer before she turns on a dainty heel and strides purposefully back toward the tents.

He can't see where she's headed, but he knows he won't be following.


	9. Chapter 9

_God. God. God._

Elsie can't stop her mind from racing. Her body is still thrumming despite her anger, her shame.

_God, what was that?_

She is not running. No, but she's as near it as propriety and practicality allow. She's having a bit of trouble breathing against her corset, but she suspects that might not be strictly due to her quickened pace.

He was sorry. He was sorry for their kisses and the way they'd touched and,  _gods_ , his hand running down her spine, across her hip, gripping, hauling her closer, driving her to distraction with his feathery kisses along her neck and jaw, making her want to claw him, press against him, anything. Awakening something she had all but forgotten was slumbering within her.

And he was bloody  _sorry_.

Sorry, it was her, sorry she'd been the one there to receive all his pent up energy and frustration he has apparently been harbouring. Sorry she'd responded so wantonly, so without shame.

But,  _damnit_ , she's been holding back too. Has been on the brink of  _something_ for so long she's ready to pull her hair out, but of course that isn't very ladylike of her, isn't very proper, is, in fact, quite the opposite.

She gives a bitter little smile that he hadn't seemed so preoccupied with her unladylike behaviour when they'd first pressed together.

It had been so good, so right, so long in the making that she'd wanted nothing more than for him to grab her hand, to pull her away from the lights of the fair, to press her down and raise her skirts and —"

"Just where do you think you're going then?"

She hears the familiar voice before she can place its owner and she must look as perplexed as she feels because the next thing she knows she's being ushered off the main path by a firm hand.

"Making another great escape, are we? This time without so much as a goodbye or a hello come to that. Just where do you get off?"

"Mrs. Patmore?" Elsie says, stupidly, because though she thought she'd seen Mr. Carson speak with someone earlier she hadn't been able to see exactly who over the heads of everyone else crowding the tent.

"In the flesh." She replies. "And if you think I'm going one more bleeding moment without a proper explanation from you then—"

Elsie doesn't find out what then, because she's too busy throwing her arms around her old friend's shoulders and squeezing her tightly.

"Oh, Beryl, I'd no idea you'd be here! You or him! The houses must be very low on staff if you're sharing now!"

Beryl looks perplexed.

"Well, they're not desolate, that's for sure, but with Bates down with a cold and the great dinner the same night as the ball…"

"Who's running Downton then?" Elsie finds herself asking, surprised she's interested.

Beryl rolls her eyes.

"Thomas. No doubt he and those silly maids will have found a way to put us all in the poorhouse by the time we return."

"Lord above. Thomas in charge. Never thought I'd see the say as long as Mr. Carson drew breath."

"I— me neither, but we can't do this. I won't. I won't stand here and discuss the house and pretend you didn't up and leave to never be heard from again."

Elsie looks down at her shoes. Her frustration, confusion produced by Mr. Carson for once pushed to the side, out of the forefront.

"I know, and if it matters, I  _am_ sorry. I didn't know what to say to you all after I left. First, it was too painful to write because I missed you all so dreadfully. I'm not sure that makes sense, but that's the truth of it. I did try, but writing to you reminded me you were all so out of reach…that the place I called home for two decades was so very far away."

Elsie is still looking at her shoes, into the darkness ahead of her over Mrs. Patmore's shoulder, anywhere but in her friend's eyes.

"Mrs. Hughes, you were married…you accepted his proposal and you left on happy terms." Beryl says, and her tone says she's trying to work out the dynamics for herself as much as she's trying to remind Elsie. Elsie notices she's called her by her maiden name- habit- but she doesn't say anything. She finds she rather likes it. "It's natural to miss your friends, your comfort, at first, I suppose, but it wasn't as if you weren't off to make a new life."

"I know." Elsie pauses, unsure how much she can give away just now, here in public at the summer fair. If she should tell her that Scotland hasn't been her life for a very long time, that she is learning that history and fondness aren't all that makes a home.

"Yes," she says instead, careful. She's weary of going through all of it again, will someday, when the time is right, but can't bear it at this moment. "I suppose you are right, but I missed you all more than I had expected, I found myself quite unable to cope. I didn't want to hear news of the house and not be part of it. I didn't want to remind myself my life was changing so drastically in my dotage, even if it was for happy reasons. And then later, when Joe passed on, I really wasn't sure—"

"I'm sorry what?"

"I was saying that life had changed so drastically that-"

"No, about Joe?"

"Oh," Elsie says, looks down at her folded hands. She forgets that none of them know. Shamefully, forgets it should make a difference. She has felt alone for so long, long before Joe passed.

She forgets.

"Joe's…gone?"

Elsie finally looks Beryl in the eye, nods.

Beryl's hands shoot out to grasp her own.

"My God, Elsie, why didn't you say? Why didn't you write? Heaven's sake, I would have come, you know! I would have been here to…help or cook you enough food to last you a month, I would have…"

Elsie shushes her gently.

"I know. I know, but as I said, I've been…not feeling myself. I didn't write and then it happened and I hadn't written in so long and by then I couldn't see the point as you'd probably all forgotten me."

Beryl shakes her head.

"Hardly. Never. 'Specially not His Highness."

Elsie swallows hard.

"He cares for you, you know. Deeply. One might almost call it love."

Elsie's head snaps up so fast she thinks she might have pulled something. Her heart is pounding.

"He'd never say, of course. Doesn't know how, really, but he's been a right misery since the day you left Downton."

_A misery to be around_

Glenna's words swirl in Elsie's mind. She blinks rapidly at Beryl. Beryl must take this as disbelief or disdain because when she continues it's in a soft tone, as soft as she's ever heard the cook, and there is a pleading quality to her voice.

"I know it's not my place to say it, but I think you ought to speak to him if you're willing. Even if you don't want to be friends - just give him something pleasant to ease his soul. A nice memory to part on. I know the two of you haven't always seen eye to eye, but you've been a great team in the past, perhaps even companions. I think he'd like a kind word in parting, if you could manage it."

Elsie stares, nods dumbly because she doesn't know what else to do.

" _I'd_ also very much appreciate our friendship back, if you see fit to bestow it upon me," Beryl says, looking away, feigning indifference to her answer.

"I'd like that," Elsie says, and she's lighter than she's felt in weeks, lighter and fluttering, and still trying to process what Beryl has just said to her, just revealed. "Very much. And I'm sorry."

Beryl pats her hands affectionately.

"You are forgiven. This once. Do it again and I won't bother coming here to hunt you down."

Her smile is affectionate, warm, and turns on a switch in Elsie that makes joy bubble up inside.

She's missed this. Missed her friend so very much. More than she realized behind the hulking, Carson-shaped hole in her heart.

"Understood." She says, returning the smile.

"Good. Then let's go back inside and you can introduce me to this legendary sister of yours."

"Legendary?"

"Oh yes, I hear she's quite gifted with a bike."

They chuckle their way to the tent, Elsie's woes temporarily swept away by the sharp comfort and easy companionship of Beryl Patmore.

* * *

"So," Glenna says later as she is walking Elsie home, arm in arm.

Arthur is walking a bit behind them, giving them the space she's signaled they'd needed.

"Beryl's very nice."

She looks sideways at Elsie's smile.

"She is. I've missed her very much. I didn't realize how much until I saw her, talked with her tonight."

"Yes. Tonight has been very enlightening indeed."

She feels Elsie stiffen; her step falter. Glenna hears her make a noncommittal noise in her throat.

Glenna's not letting her off that easy.

"Wouldn't you say?"

"I don't know what you mean," Elsie says, clear and calm, but Glenna can tell she's nervous. Can tell the same way she knows when a storm is brewing or when a cow is about to calve. Can't resist.

"Only, you seemed a bit flushed when you came back to the tent. Are you feeling feverish?"

Elsie stops dead.

Glenna hears Arthur's step stop, too, far enough away he can't hear their whispers.

"I'm fine," Elsie says with a glare. "I was warm, that's all."

"Oh, I'm sure you were, all wrapped up in Mr. Carson's arms like that."

Glenna nearly laughs at the way her sister's eyes widen, her breath catches.

"I— what do you? Glenna?"

And Glenna can't help but relent.

"Oh, don't worry about it, puss, I'm just teasing!"

"Glenna, whatever you thought you saw…it wasn't…we…it's not like that.. we aren't…"

Glenna cocks her brow.

"Aren't...what?"

"We aren't anything."

"Ah. Am I to take it he was eating you alive then or that you were an unwilling participant? Because if so, I'll have Arthur and half the town after him right now to answer for his crimes."

"No! Gods, Glenna, no. It's just, he and I... It's a mistake. I might've foolishly thought...once...but it doesn't matter now."

"Doesn't matter heck! What are you babbling about? I haven't seen you so alive in decades!"

Glenna searches her sister's eyes, begs her to tell the truth. Wills herself, just this once, to be able to meet Elsie where she stands, so stock still and stubborn and perhaps coax her free. Help her to live a little.

* * *

Elise shakes her head, looks away. She doesn't want to be having this conversation.

She'd told Glenna once she wouldn't understand.

She had meant it.

"Elsie? Please tell me. What do you mean? Is this because I teased you, because I'm…I'm happy for you, really, love, it's been plain as the nose on your face from the moment I saw him clap eyes on you that he's besotted. And you're as bad. I…I know you won't think it's proper to say, but I am…glad that something… _someone_ has jolted you awake. This," She gestures around them. "Joe, he was never right. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad you're here, love having you so near, but you haven't been happy, Elsie and I think since that day in my kitchen, I've known why. Maybe. And if nothing else, it's good to see a bit of colour on your cheeks."

Elsie looks away, back at her sister. Wills away the tears she felt rising earlier as they begin to make their return. What is she meant to say?

She's embarrassed. She's embarrassed and confused because her sister has caught her out necking with a man, which would be embarrassing enough at her age, but it is also because of what Glenna has just said – she is a widow, meant to be dour and reserved and not chewing the lips off of Mr. Carson who is a virtual stranger to her sister and everyone, all of which conspires to make her a no-good hussy, and she's confused because a large part of her doesn't care at all, the part of her that's focused in on the fact that it's the second time in as many hours that someone has told her that Mr. Carson fancies her.

Still, they don't know how he'd pushed her away. How disgusted he was by their actions. As disgusted as she had been relieved, delighted even through her anger.

"It's more complicated than that, Glenna."

To Elsie's surprise, Glenna chuckles.

"I'm sure it is, puss. But I'm glad of it all the same. Don't think about it so much, you overthink it- everything. You always have. You make it so hard on yourself when it could be easy if you'd let it. Give him a chance. Yourself a chance. I don't claim to know much— "

Elsie scoffs here.

" _But_ I do know passion when I see it. And I saw it tonight between the two of you. That doesn't come along every day, Elsie. I don't know what happened after, what made you so down in the mouth, but please don't let whatever it was ruin what could blossom there between the two of you. I'm sure it isn't worth it."

Glenna grasps her hand and Elsie swallows thickly, nods just a bit, anything to end this torment.

As she had predicted, Glenna doesn't understand that she  _has_  given him a chance, has given him a hundred and one chances every day practically since she arrived on Downton's doorstep, and he has let her down again and again. Always finds a way to stomp on her hopes, her feelings. She would do better to accept that she's only made things worse, only confused things between them and made him second guess himself. He was a man, and that explained his earlier actions, but he didn't want her. He only wanted her kindness back, the comfort that had grown between them and that she had taken with her when she left, her  _companionship_ as Beryl had put it.

He had only wanted to settle things, as he always has.

She has been the fool waiting for more, the stupid fool reading into every interaction, hanging on every word. Pathetic. Stupid.

But she can't say that now. She doesn't want to open herself up to more lectures. So, she nods again.

"I will try," she says, thickly.

"Right then. Go home, puss. Sleep. Rest your mind. And tomorrow, for heaven's sake,  _find_  him and talk to him. Don't let it go on like this or you'll regret it forever."

Elsie doesn't know what to say to that, watches as her sister turns, walks toward her husband and threads her arm through his, gives him a kiss on the cheek and walks down the lane.

Elsie turns to look down her drive, toward the little house she shared with Joe, and suddenly it all feels too small, feels lacking compared to what she'd felt this evening in the care of Beryl Patmore, the arms of Charles Carson.

She sighs, turns. Makes her way down the narrow path toward where the dim porch light glows warmly in the summer night.

* * *

He doesn't know what he's thinking, how he's convinced himself that following them had been the right idea, only, he feels he must apologize, must beg her pardon, must throw himself at her feet, must make his supplication before it's too late. He must do it before she's solidified her distaste for him in her chest and they'll not even be able to be friends.

He isn't sure how she makes him forget himself so easily. How he has gone from swearing not to follow her to doing that very thing. Stalking her like some sort of forlorn puppy.

It's only, he can't bear the thought of never speaking to her again, of never hearing her laugh or seeing her eyes light up. He must patch this up, set them straight once and for all. Must accomplish it before he has to return to England in a day's time.

He is so angry that his lust for her has ruined everything. He must right it. Can't let it alone. Can't stand when they aren't on the same side.

He takes his hat off awkwardly when Glenna and her husband come back down the lane, find him standing there at the edge of it.

"Mr. Carson," Glenna says with a nod, a familiar, sly smile he's seen on the lips of her sister countless times before.

The husband tips his hat.

"Mrs. Scott, I was just - that is- "

"Good night, Mr. Carson," Glenna says as they continue walking, not giving him a second glance.

He wonders if he's meant to take that as some sort of twisted permission.

He isn't sure, but he can't bother with it now. It's only her sister, not likely to say anything against Elsie's honor.

Besides, he is there to restore, to apologize, not anything else. Definitely not what they…he had…initiated earlier. Not even to argue.

Reasonably reassured, and determined to realign them, he does what he has so many times in the face of trials and shame, he walks on.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

Elsie sighs as she hears the knock on her front door, has just shed her hat and handbag when she's pulled back into the sitting room again.

Before she can get there, there is another knock. Elsie rolls her eyes.

"All right, all right, Glenna, I'm coming, keep your knickers on. What is it that you've forgotten?" Elsie says, only to be struck speechless by the sight of Charles Carson's hulking frame filling up her doorway.

"Not Glenna, I'm afraid," he says, and he is holding his hat, his expression as contrite as she's ever seen it.

"No, I suppose you aren't," she says carefully, still only holding the door halfway open, still flabbergasted by his really being there.

"All the same, do you think I might come in? I shan't trouble you for long, I assure you. Only there's something I'd rather like to say if you'll hear it."

"I- of course. Come in."

She moves out of his way and widens the door so that he can enter, closes it behind him and turns to see him standing tall in her sitting room. Something in her flips and turns, beats its wings once again against her ribs, whispers that he looks very handsome, strikes a rather dashing image in her home like this.

She wills it to  _shut up_.

"Please, Mr. Carson, make yourself comfortable, can I get you anything? Tea or perhaps a spot of wine?"

She thinks bitterly about how she can't offer him (or herself) anything stronger because she's already gone and guzzled it all up. She has a feeling something stronger might be helpful.

"I wouldn't say no to a glass of water. It's very warm tonight."

"Yes, yes, of course! Here, please. Let me take your hat and jacket, then I'll show you to the kitchen."

She doesn't know why she sounds so manic, attempts to calm her nerves as she takes his hat, tries not to watch as he slips his jacket over his shoulders, rolls the cuffs of this shirt sleeves just a bit so she can see where his strong hands meet wrist and turn into muscled forearm. She tells herself that it doesn't matter that he's tan, sun-kissed like get gets in the summer months when he's been practicing his cricket game or helping tend to some of the trickier plants at the abbey.

She only realizes she's staring when he pauses his work, asks if she minds him doing it.

"No, no, of course not. Don't be silly. We aren't young, wilting creatures, after all, Mr. Carson."

He coughs.

"No, I suppose not. Thank you," he says as she returns from the hall closet and he follows her into the kitchen.

"Not at all," Elsie says, with forced cheer, still a bit manic, still trying not to dwell on how easily they've fallen into sync, into old routines, how simply domestic it all seems. How they are pointedly tiptoeing around that fact she'd been clawing at the buttons of the very same shirt a few hours ago.

How bizarre it all seems. She wills herself to settle down, takes a few deep breaths and moves with practiced efficiency.

She draws him a glass of water, offers him a seat at the table, at the head, where Joe used to sit, but always seemed to her to be  _his_  spot as it had been for the last twenty years of her life. He takes it and she sits to his right, just like old times.

He finishes off the water in a few big gulps and she knows better than to push him now, waits patiently even as her heart still pounds against her chest. She can't imagine whatever he has to say will be positive. Is ready to take the dressing down because she deserves it for behaving so reprehensibly. She won't make excuses; won't tell him of her foolhardy heart or her pitiful aspirations for his affections. No, she can only beg his forgiveness now.

"I owe you an apology, Mrs. Hughes."

"Mr. Carson, I—what?"

She wrinkles her brow, confused. That certainly wasn't right. She should be the one apologizing, explaining to him.

He holds up a hand for her to wait.

"I behaved like an utter cad toward you tonight. I took advantage of you in a weakened state, and I don't know what came over me, perhaps the heat, but I – I can't tell you how terrible I feel, how disgusted I am with myself for taking such liberties with you. You are a woman of honor and decency and deserving of only the utmost respect from all who know you. Especially me. I know what I have done is completely unforgivable, but I do hope, with time, you will consider it. I can only pray my lapse in judgment will not ruin everything we have shared. However, I understand you will likely feel differently, and will, therefore, leave you at once."

He moves to stand, but she grasps his arm. Her head is spinning, but thankfully she can think clearly enough to say what she needs to.

"Mr. Carson, do I not even get a say in whether or not I might forgive you?"

She is trying to bite back a silly smile; cannot believe they have ended up here. As always, she is defenseless against this man, this secret sweetheart, hiding beneath stiff pride, which he's just swallowed for her.

It is enough.

"Well, yes, of course. I'm sorry," he says, sits back down and looks at his hands, waits for whatever punishment she will rain down.

"Mr. Carson," she is bold enough to keep her hand where it rests on his arm. "It is I who owes you an apology. I shouldn't have behaved in that way I—I don't know what I was thinking either, but if you are willing to chalk it up to the heat, then I certainly am as well."

She smiles at him warmly and he meets her eyes, returns her smile with one of his own. The one she loves.

She ignores the pang in her chest.

"Friends?" she asks.

His hand covers hers.

"Friends always, Mrs. Hughes."

It is enough.

* * *

They have talked for another hour at least, and it is getting a bit late now, but neither seems to notice. He is sharing tales of the house, she is filling him in on snippets of her old life, growing up, silly times with Glenna and the way they'd been raised, the gentle parts, the parts okay enough to share without dampening the delicate mood.

She finally feels a sense of ease, as if she is finally on level ground. She has Mr. Carson back. They are friends, and she is so relieved of it, can content herself with that.

She can.

It's just that she's a little curious.

Never could hold her tongue around him.

Defenseless.

"What I don't understand, Mr. Carson, is why you were so vexed I hadn't told you about Joe. I hadn't gotten the impression you thought much of him."

She senses the way his mood shifts, how he has become uncomfortable, it is evident to her in the way that he presses his lips into a firm line, draws his brows down so they almost seem to cover his eyes as he looks at where their hands rest closely on the table.

She pulls hers back toward herself, unsure.

"It wasn't that I didn't think much of him, Mrs. Hughes. Not like that. He seemed a good enough fellow, and I am truly sorry you lost him so quickly."

"Thank you," she says automatically, more out of habit than anything else. "but you never did sing his praises, once asked me if he was hideous when he first came to call on me at Downton if I recall correctly."

He is silent.

"Do I recall correctly, Mr. Carson?"

"You do."

"Then you understand why I didn't write to you about my life here, about his passing?"

"I do."

"Then why were you so upset tonight in the first place?" she asks again.

"It's nothing, Mrs. Hughes."

"Oh, we aren't back to this again, are we? I thought we only just established we were friends again, Mr. Carson. Friends don't keep secrets."

She doesn't know why she's pushing him now, only it eats at her, just a bit, just there in the darkness of her heart.

She can't resist.

"That's rich coming from you," he says roughly, and she gasps a bit, draws her lip between her teeth, dips her head, because of course, he's right, there are countless things she's kept from him over the years, namely the exact thing that's driven him once again to push her away. Why can she not learn?

 _Stupid_.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. That was rude of me. I don't know why I said it."

He says nothing.

She worries her lip.

"It's getting late. I am sure you'll want to be getting on. I've been talking your ear clean off."

"No! I — that is – you didn't offend me it's only... It's only I fear if I tell you, it will shock and anger you. I couldn't bear to lose your friendship, Mrs. Hughes. Not again. Not for anything."

She can feel her eyebrow rising.

"I doubt anything you could say would shock me, Mr. Carson. I may not be a woman of the world, but I don't live in a sack. Tell me, won't you? Please?"

He looks at her for a moment, their eyes locked as they had been across the tent earlier in the evening before he looks down at his folded hands again.

"I was angry because I was selfish," he says, finally.

She wrinkles her brow.

"Selfish?"

He takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes.

"Yes, selfish, Mrs. Hughes."

"Mr. Carson, I have known you to be many things, but selfish is not one of them."

"No, but you have also not known me to be in love with you," he says, and it's so simple, so clear and plain and wonderful and shocking and her world is stopped on a dime.

She feels like she can't breathe.

"What? What did you say, Mr. Carson?"

Her voice sounds foreign to her, high pitched and breathy and with a brogue as thick as when she was just a wee lass of the highlands.

"I was selfish, Mrs. Hughes, because I have been in love with you. That's the awful truth of it. I thought myself deserving of your loyalties, love, and affection simply because  _I_ loved you, but now I know I'm nothing more than a sad old fool"

* * *

She is silent and he feels he is breaking with it, is crumbling under her shocked gaze.

"I understand if you want to throw me out, Mrs. Hughes. I won't make a fuss. I can see myself off well enough."

He pushes his chair back, makes to stand again when she beats him to it, is standing over him. He thinks she might slap him and is prepared to take it willingly this time when she speaks, lowly and dangerously.

"Oh," She says, "you're a fool alright."

And before he knows what's happened, she is on him, surrounding him, holding his face between her palms and kissing him senseless.

"You"

_kiss_

"are"

_kiss_

"a"

_kiss_

"bloody fool!"

_Kiss. Kiss. Kiss._

"Because of course! Gods, of course, it's you. It's always been you, Mr. Carson. I am ashamed to admit it, but even when it was him,  _Christ_ , it was  _you_ , Charles."

He feels his heart swell, tears springing to his eyes, and he is kissing  _her_ now, thoroughly and harsh, his hands on her hips, gripping her firmly, with no intention of letting her go this time.

"Thank God," he breathes against her mouth, barely pulling away, intoxicated by how her lips are already swollen with their attentions, glistening in the dim light of her kitchen, and he doesn't think he can deny this any longer, not if she wants it too.

And she does, judging by the urgency with which her fingers are pulling at his collar, tugging his tie. She only succeeds in tightening it awkwardly halfway down and he can't help but grin at her frustrated moan.

"Don't laugh at me, Charlie. Not at a time like this."

This stops him dead.

"What did you just say?"

"Don't laugh at me?"

"No, the other. What did you call me?"

"Oh" she blushes, prettily, and he is charmed, so delighted, didn't know she could be more flushed. "was that okay? It's only, that's sometimes how I thought of... _imagined_ it...between us. Elsie and Charlie."

He has to close his eyes against her image then because if he looks at her, he knows, he knows it likely isn't what she meant, but that he won't be able to stop himself from picturing her, alone in her bed, nightdress rucked up and  _imagining_.

Instead, he grips her hips and pulls her forward, down onto his lap and hisses when she lets out a little moan at the contact.

"Say it again." He says, opening his eyes to stare into hers.

When she is quiet, lost in the moment, beginning to rock just barely against him, kissing wherever she can reach, he shifts toward her, lifting his hips as much as he can from his chair and increasing the pressure, watches her face contort in pleasure before easing back again, kissing her lip as it pouts out, tracing it with the tip of his tongue.

"Ach, god!"

She rocks harder against him now, but he holds her still, captures her hips in his strong hands and keeps her from writhing the way she so clearly wants to. She is kissing what little remains of the little scrape on his forehead over and over again with feather-light touches of her lips on his skin.

"Say it." He says again, calmer than he feels.

She whines a pretty whine, shifts futilely against his restraining palms a few more fruitless times before she opens her eyes and looks at him.

"Gods,  _Charlie_. I love you. Charlie, I love you, please- "

She can't finish her plea because he has already lifted her, has picked her up in a swift movement that he's sure his back will protest tomorrow, but at the moment he can't feel at all.

"Yes," he says, placing her on the edge of the table, sliding his hands beneath the hem of her skirts where they are mussed, bunched up. "Christ, Elsie,  _finally_ , I love you too. I love you. I've always loved you. I want—I need—can I-?"

"Yes, please. Charlie,  _please_. Touch me."

Carson has to grit his teeth in order to keep himself from taking her then and there. As much as he would enjoy it, wants it, he needs to know this will be good for her. Even more, he wants to take his time, he has waited so long for this, since the pretty maid with the claret-colored hair had twitched her nose, quirked her brow, sassed him that first time when he was still just under butler, he has wanted this. So, he will do his level best to watch her come undone right here on the kitchen table.

His fingers have just begun to skim the edge of her stockings, her thighs squeezing rhythmically beneath his touch when a thought occurs to him and he stops cold, breathing hard.

He looks at her, leaned back, propped up on her hands, head thrown back, her eyes shut and she's panting toward the ceiling and he knows it's wrong, but an ugly little part of him wants, needs to know.

He's trying to formulate a way to ask her when she looks up, her breathing still harsh.

"What—what's wrong?" she asks, her hands on his biceps, nails digging in just slightly.

"It's silly."

"Well, for heaven's sake, out with it then so we can solve it and you can-we can keep— to continue..."

She's not making much sense, but his fingers have begun to play with the edges of her garters, lifting, dropping, mussing, tugging them just lightly and he doesn't even realize he's doing it, can't see he's making it impossible for her to see straight, let alone think.

"It's only...did you ever...were you ever  _with_  Joe, here?"

* * *

"Wha-what?" She says, her voice higher now, closer to a whine, and he is still oblivious as his fingers move to trail against her inner thigh, slip slightly beneath the top of her stocking and across her skin.

"I mean, I'm sure you were with him. I'm not naive."

She is biting her lip, trying very hard to concentrate on what he's saying, but he certainly isn't making it easy the way he's rubbing at her skin in little circles, polishing her, turning her over and over like a delicate piece of silver. She rocks toward his hand and bites back a moan as he continues.

"But were you ever with him just  _here?_ " he emphasizes, looking down at where he's between her thighs at the table and she has to stifle a hysteric laugh, puts her hand on his through her skirts to still him and leans up, slings the hand not holding his around his neck, makes him look her in the eye.

"No, Charlie. Joe and I - we never - it wasn't..."

She looks at him hard and he's so serious. So stern and done up and she thinks she should probably do something about that. Needs him to be as undone as her.

She continues on conversationally as she loosens his tie with less desperation, slowly undoes it enough so she can slip it over his collar and then his head, lays it on her lap, unbuttons the first three buttons of his shirt until she can just see his chest hair peeking out.

"He tried, some, but, no. We weren't. Not anywhere. Especially not  _here_."

"Besides," She says, looking into his eyes. "It wouldn't have been this, because this is with you and I love you. I have loved you for so long - in a way I could never have loved Joe. A way I couldn't imagine ever being lucky enough for it to be returned. I  _want_  you, Charlie, as I've never wanted anyone. So much, it almost scares me.

And, as she finishes, she considers only a moment before she lifts his tie, half-loose and silly, and puts it around her own neck. She feels giddy. Smiles at him in a way meant to be reassuring and bolstering.

Her smile vanishes when she sees his eyes darken, when he grabs his tie and pulls her forward so that her lips can meet his in a fierce kiss.

"Good," he is saying as his lips move over hers, "good because I want you too, more than,  _god_ , Elsie, more than anything."

And his hand is moving again, shaking itself free from beneath hers and toying with her stockings again, the clips of her garters, and she presses her legs impossibly wider, silently begs him to do something, anything other than teasing her so.

"Please, Charlie."

"Please, what?" He says, distracted, watching where his hands are moving against her, and she doesn't think he means it to sound quite so risqué, but she can't keep her hips from bucking up anyway.

His tone is so deep, harsh, exactly like it is when he's presiding over a table or dressing down the staff and there's something about that, that sends a shameful little thrill through her. Something that makes her brow wrinkle, but she can't examine just now, not when he's winding her up so deliciously, when she's so ready and he hasn't even touched her yet.

The thought makes her groan aloud.

"Please, touch me. Please. Mr. Carson,  _gods_."

She feels him bunching up her skirts even further, pushing them up until he can see the top of her knickers, his hand searching for and finding the ribbon that unties them.

And she's feeling so unraveled, so wanton and desperate and she helps as he undoes the clips of garters, trails the tips of his fingers down the length of her legs. Her knickers are next and he makes a slow show of removing those, his hands stroking at her thighs and hips through the loose, practical cotton until he sees fit to peel them down and over her boots and stockings, off her.

He looks straight at her,  _there_ , and the moan he lets out is enough to make her keen in response.

"You are so beautiful. I knew. I knew you would be."

She tries not to dwell on his admitting he's imagined her like this because it only brings her closer to begging again. Instead, she focuses on trying to even out the playing field.

She leans up and her fingers scramble over the fasting of his trousers, undoing them, pushing them down until they pool at his shoes and he frantically toes off his shoes, kicks the lot away. If she weren't so desperately aroused, she might find the action amusing.

Her thighs are shaking as he slides his fingers over them again, he trails the pads of them down to her knees where here stockings still cover her, and then back up the inside of them hovering on the soft skin where her thighs meet her hips until he moves between them, cupping her heat, making her choke back a cry.

He seems to wait forever, content to rest gently on the springy curls of her sex, and she is trying her hardest not to writhe, to keep her wits about her. She is already a little embarrassed by her need, her willingness to beg, so unlike her.

She only realizes he's teasing her when she looks up at him through her haze and sees his smug smile, his traitorous little wink.

Trembling, she begins to slip her fingers under the edge of his shorts, aiming to make quick work of them and drive him just as insane as he is making her.

"Oh, you basta-"

She starts but doesn't get the chance to finish as his fingers suddenly move smoothly between her folds, spread her open, and begin stroking her lightly where she aches most. The volume of her own moans startles her, and she brings her hand over her mouth, only for him to pull it away, place it back on the band of his shorts, give her a stern look.

"No.," he says simply, before returning his concentration to where his fingers are mapping every bit of her flesh.

She knows she should probably be ashamed of the moisture he finds there, the way she's spilling over his fingers, but she can't find it in her to worry about propriety when he's circling her so gently right over that little nub that drives her absolutely mad.

Her hands falter on his shorts as he shifts, strokes her just on either side of it.

"God, Charlie, F-"

She's making the most obscene noises now, little cries she can't stifle.

He's caught on to the way his light touch just there is driving her further, pushing her steadily toward the brink.

She's pushing at his shorts, needs them off.

"Off, Mr. Carson. Take them off,  _now_ , please!"

She draws out the last word, has noticed herself how that particular sound from her mouth makes him buck toward her just a bit, increase the maddening speed of his fingers against her.

He complies but pushes her hand away again when she moves to touch him, and it makes her whimper because it's all she wants: to feel him, touch him.

He pushes her onto her back, his lips pressed lightly to hers, his tongue seeking and twisting with the tip of hers. He whispers against her hotly, barely drawing his mouth away so she can actually feel him speaking.

"If you do that it'll all be over in a minute, and I've been waiting too bloody long to tolerate that. I have plans."

She whimpers.

His fingers continue their gentle exploration, up and down, circling her nub and tracing her entrance, gathering her moisture and spreading it around. He leans down closer to her and she can't believe when he breathes in deeply, before blowing a narrow stream of air out onto her, the coolness of it a shock on her overheated body.

His fingers dip down again, circle her entrance over and over before he dips one in, pulsing it back and forth until he has his thick finger buried in her to the knuckle and is moving in and out of her slowly.

She moves against him, moaning because it's not enough, there's not enough friction, and then she feels him withdraw, can't hide her disappointment, her little whimper of despair, until he returns with two, pressing inside her and then scissoring them open and closed just slightly, stretching her. Then he is curling them against her on a spot that makes her understand why women are willing to risk it all for this touch.

She bites hard on her lower lip.

He's panting now too as he watches his fingers disappear in her over and over, licking his lips in a way that makes her feel like he might devour her, and she feels near tears at the thought, is so close, but he is holding her back. He  _won't_ , he isn't pushing her over, won't take her where she needs to go.

She is aware she's chanting something, "oh, please," perhaps, over and over.

"Look at me, Elsie," he says, and it's a gargantuan task, takes everything she has.

"I love you." He says, even as his fingers stop, pull away from her, as she strains and bucks against  _nothing_. She thinks she might weep.

"Why? God, why have you stopped? Why would you stop? Won't you continue,  _please_?"

She has never begged so in her life, has never wanted something so desperately as she wants Mr. Carson to make her lose herself on the edge of her kitchen table.

She nearly tells him so, shock and vulgarity be damned, but she is cut short when he sinks to his knees, pushes her thighs apart roughly, slinging one over each shoulder and exposing her so clearly with her skirts bunched up around her waist.

"I'm going to kiss you now, Elsie."

And she wants to stop him, wants to tell him she can't take it, can't take any more of this, but his lips are already on the sensitive skin joining her thigh to her mound, placing open-mouthed kisses, love bites, so close to where she needs it that she's robbed of all ability to think clearly, to make a coherent sound.

"I love you." She hears him say again as he grows closer to her center, to exactly where she wants him and she repeats it back to him over and over, peppered with pleas and accompanied by her hands in his hair, pulling, tugging, trying to guide him where she needs him, because if he doesn't get there soon, she swears she will take herself in her own hands.

She must move that way because in a moment he has her hands trapped in his on either side of her hips, holding them immobile. His grip is not tight, not inescapable, but his words hold her in place.

"Oh, no, love. I want to do this for you. Don't move. Let me do this for you."

He feathers kisses so lightly against her that she's sure she will go insane. She will be nothing but a babbling mess, a simpering fool, of no use to anyone ever again. She thinks she might die here suspended; wound so tightly she thinks she'll snap.

And then his tongue sneaks out between his lips and lightly, lightly parts her curls, laps gently at her little nub and she is crying out, almost screaming as she bucks rhythmically against him trying to force him into a pattern, something strong and steady, like him, that will bring her off, but he resists, maintaining no consistence, steering clear of doing anything for too long that will tip her over the edge.

He is fast and slow and hard then soft, and when he pulls her into his mouth, sucks just lightly on her lips before blowing softly against her nub, she thinks if she lives through this, she will kill him.

She is so open, pushed wide by the bulk of his body and unable to touch, to do anything as his hands still her, keep her from tugging at him, bringing herself over, she is forced to wait as he sips so carefully from her, takes her to the edge over and over, brings all this pleasure to her.

He moves again, runs his tongue along her length before moving it up, flicking it urgently over her, the very tip of it touching her and making her cry.

"I've dreamed of this." He says, or at least that's what she thinks he says. It is hard to tell when he is pressed between her thighs and she can barely breathe. "Dreamed of you like this, beneath me, my mouth on you. Your taste, your smell. It's intoxicating, Elise. Better than I could have imagined. I don't ever want to stop."

She can't believe she's hearing these words from him, they are shocking and exhilarating in his rumbling voice, from between his proper lips, so concerned with rules and propriety and here he is with her pressed against the kitchen table, his tongue against her sex, telling her how he's dreamed of them just like this. It is enough to make her dizzy with want.

"God then don't, please! God, no, please don't stop," she says as she feels his tongue soften again, calming her just a bit.

He kisses her again there, once. She can feel the tears sliding down her temples, into her hair.

"No, no, no, please." She says again desperately.

She can feel his chuckle more than see it. Strains against where he holds her hands, tucks her chin up to try to see him properly.

"Are you laughing at me, Charlie," she asks, breathless, still trying to squeeze her thighs around his ears and bring him closer. "because, if you are, so help me god—"

He pushes up, looks at her, smiles a roguish smile and blows against her in a way that makes her eyes roll back, quite unable to finish her thought, let alone string it together into words.

"Not ever, love. I'm savoring you. Relishing how beautiful you are. Your sounds, the taste of you, everything."

She's smiling, too, but it's a bit feral, slightly wild.

"I look forward to returning the favor." She says, surprised she still has it in her to be so wicked.

She loves the way his eyes darken, his smile drops.

"Oh, so do I, Mrs. Hughes. So do I."

She groans loudly when he rubs his chin against her, smearing himself and her with her wetness, her head drops back against the table with a thud. Her eyes close.

"Are you ready?" He asks, his lips brushing her with every syllable.

"Charlie, if you don't  _fuck_ me soon, I swear I'll turn you out of this house."

She says it with her eyes still closed, couldn't give a fig about vulgarity when he's just admitted to imagining her sex against his mouth. She is still rocking forward in little motions, still clawing the table beneath his grip, so close and ever hopeful.

He growls at her words and releases her hands to tug her closer, presses his fingers into her thighs so tightly she's sure they will bruise.

"Yes, ma'am," he says darkly, before burying his face against her again, kissing, sucking against her in earnest now and she's on the edge again in an instant.

Begging again without shame.

"Oh, do it, Charlie, please, please do it. God, take me,  _fuck_  me, have me."

She begins to run her hands along her torso, over his tie that still hangs about her neck, down to the juncture of her thighs when he grasps her wrist again, cuts her short.

"Naughty." he drawls. "What did I say? I told you I have been selfish and now is my chance to make it up to you. Hands by your sides, please, Mrs. Hughes."

She moans loudly at the use of her title in this context but does as she's told.

"Now keep them there or I shall have to do it for you."

He says it conversationally as if he's asked her to pass the salt and not to hold still while he fucks her with his mouth and tongue.

With two fingers he carefully parts her again. Moans lowly at the sight of her and then leans forward, kisses all around her sex. His tongue parts her inner lips and dips into her wet channel, causing her to make a high-pitched humming sound in her throat. Her hands move of their own accord again and he doesn't even pause, merely grips them firmly in his, pushes them down to her sides and covers them with his own, his strong hands and fingers pinning her in place.

He is still gazing at her, pausing, licking his lips.

"Perfect," he says softly, and she feels very close to throwing some sort of fit, demanding he finish her before she finishes him in a far less pleasurable way.

Before she gets the chance, his tongue dips into her a few more times, and she can do nothing but mewl his name, press herself against his face in desperation.

Then he moves up, circling that little nub again, and he is groaning loudly now himself and the vibrations of it are shooting right through her center, increasing the throbbing there. She is in a frenzy, so close, so  _close_  to the edge. She gasps when he takes her nub in his mouth, flickers his tongue over it at lightning speed then sucks so lightly, so gently, and that's it, she's cracking, screaming, crying, tumbling over the edge as he moans against her, keeps his tongue moving gently to draw out her pleasure as she tenses over and over against his lips.

She's vaguely aware of him releasing her hands, of his soothing kisses to her hips, one to her center that makes her hips jump, of the way he's telling her she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, always, but especially like this.

His gentle kisses have moved to her thighs, and she strokes absently at his hair, tugs at his curls to make them unruly.

Neither of them finds that they can speak.

His teeth are nipping at the insides of her thighs, leaving little red marks, and his hands are working up, pushing his tie to the side, sliding up over the bodice of her dress to squeeze at her breasts, brush against her nipples the best he can through the fabric of her dress and corset, and the denial of her body feeling it through the cotton and boning is a different sort of pleasure, the suggestion of his touch against her there enough to bring heat to her, and it isn't long before she's starting to feel ready again, even after she's fallen apart so thoroughly and bone-shatteringly against his extremely talented lips.

She tugs at his hair in earnest then and notes the way it makes him groan with pleasure for her to do so.

"Up," she says.

When he complies, moves up to stand between her thighs, she sees him fully, hot and hard and throbbing  _for her_ , his cock jumping as she sits up, draws them closer together and kisses him, tastes herself on his lips.

The cloth of her skirts has fallen over them lightly, obscuring her sex and brushing along his length as she nibbles his ear, sucks lightly at the side of his neck.

"Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Carson?" She whispers and she can feel him swallow, the way he's twitching against the top of her knee, against the silk of her stocking. "Something you'd like?"

And she can't believe she's like this, is saying these horrid, delicious, terrible things in his ear, so shameless, but he has taught her well already, her man, and she will give as good as she gets. She does not live in a sack, after all.

"I—" he says, presses his head to her shoulder as she continues her earlier work of unbuttoning his shirt, opening it enough that she can circle his nipple with the pads of her fingers, draw her nails over its tip, just so.

"I should keep you just like this, you know." She says against his ear, a wicked smile playing about her lips, as her hand slides up and out of his shirt and then down over his side, running her nails along the fabric.

"As punishment."

His moan is low as her hand continues down, rests gently over him through the fabric of her dress.

"Elsie, please."

"Oh, please now is it? Not quite so bossy as before."

He rocks against her.

"God, yes,  _please_."

He's fingering the edges of her skirt, grasping and releasing.

"Elsie, please, can I?"

She smiles a bit, finds she rather understands his penchant for hearing her beg, finds it equally intoxicating.

She considers.

She's ready, more than, but she can't help but tease him just a bit in retaliation, knows he'll never move against her without her express permission.

"I've imagined you like this, too, you know." She whispers, revels in the way his eyes close, the way he sucks in a breath. "Hot and hard against me. So ready. Ready to claim me. Make me yours."

Her fingers flutter over him as lightly as she can manage, and she's beginning to wish her skirts were up too, wants to see him, watch his reaction to her.

Then she remembers she can, and she does, carefully drags her skirts back again, drawing them over him lightly, gasps when she sees him in full.

He's substantial, as she imagined, and he's pulsing in a way that makes her thighs clench against his sides.

Her fingers lower, hovering over the tip of him.

"Elsie." He drawls and it's a warning.

"Just a little. I just want to feel you... can I please?"

He huffs out a long breath.

"Alright, but you must stop. You must as soon as I tell you."

She's nodding before he's even finished speaking, her fingers running lightly against the softest skin she's ever felt, making little circles where moisture has gathered at his tip. She feels the deep desire to have him in her mouth, as he has had her, is about to ask him if she can when he grabs her wrist, pulls it to his mouth for a rough kiss.

"Stop, please. I can't. Please."

"Are you very ready, my man?" She asks, letting the hand that's not held in his wander up his chest to rake through his chest hair, give it a light tug before moving up his jaw and around the back of his neck to thread through his mussed curls.

"Yes, yes, Elsie, please."

She kisses his brow, once, twice.

"Alright then, Mr. Carson." She says, thickening her accent. "Have me then."

With a roar, he tugs her closer to the edge of the table, licks his hand quickly in a way that makes her eyes widen, her nub twitch, and then he strokes himself, twice, before he buries himself in her.

"I love you." He whispers, biting her neck.

Elsie is surprised it doesn't hurt, not in the way she thought it might. Instead, she feels deliciously full, stretched, complete with the feel of him, with her man inside her as it always should have been, as she's wanted for so long.

"Christ, yes."

She's not sure who says it, her or him, maybe both.

It strikes her after a moment that he's very still and she wonders if he's teasing her again. She tugs at his hair, pulls him away from her neck so she can see him, and when she sees that his eyes are clenched shut, that he's breathing harshly through his teeth, she knows it's for her. He's holding back to let her adjust, waiting for permission.

"Oh,  _yes_ , my man, yes please, don't hold back. Let me...give me...do it, take me, please." She whispers against his lips, squeezing him with her inner muscles, swallowing his deep groan.

"Yes, let me have it all."

It is her turn to keen again as he rocks forward just a bit at first, not even pulling back, just grinding against her in a way that presses her nub deliciously against his pelvis, makes her pant.

It's not enough.

"More, please, my man, more."

They both moan loudly as he pulls back a bit, pushes in again.

"Yes." She says. "Like that. Just like that."

"God, you're everything. You're all I've ever...god, I love you, Mrs. Hughes, I love you."

"Ah, I love you too, Mr. Carson." She says, and she's feeling that mania again, that insane edge, like walking along a razor wire, and he's still pulling out, pushing in so slowly.

"Harder." She moans.

"I don't want to hurt you." He says, his hands running over her, touching her everywhere he can reach, grasping her bum to pull her toward him, match his rhythm.

The sensation of them slamming together, putting delicious friction on her just there is enough to make her close her eyes, bite her lip.

"You won't, I will tell you if it's too much, I promise, just please, my man, do it, give it here."

She squeezes him again and she feels him twitch inside her, and she wonders, reaches down and cups the heaviness of him, runs her thumb over his skin.

"God! Elsie!"

And it has the desired effect. He picks up speed, thrusting into her, pushing her down on the table, hauling her knees up so only her heels still touch the edge. She remembers for the first time that her boots are still on, her stockings up, that she's still mostly clothed, that he is too.

Somehow that makes it better. Reminds her of all the times she'd wished for this in her darkest most desperate moments while they were sharing a glass of wine or a glance at the dinner table.

He's pounding into her now and it's everything she wants. She loves watching him lose control, hearing his deep groans, feeling him bear down against her.

The pressure is building, and it's wonderful, is almost ecstasy. She wonders if he'd hate very much if she were to touch herself, wonders if he'd stop her if she tried to mix her own fingers between them and stroke just where she knows will do the trick.

"Are you...is this?" He says, sweat dripping from his brow onto her dress.

She nods

"I'm close, it's just, I need..."

She trails off, unsure what to say, how to ask. She bites her lip.

But she needn't have worried, should have known he'd be able to read her, to know exactly.

With one smooth motion, he brings a hand between them, supports himself over her with his other, while his long, strong fingers brush along her stomach, over the smooth plane of her corset, where her muscles are already twitching beneath, and then through her curls, carefully pressing a finger against her where his tongue had worked her into nearly unbearable pleasure minutes before.

The thought makes her jerk against him.

"Yes." He says, "yes, that's it, Elsie."

"Mmm." She moans, bringing her hand to her lips and tracing them, biting her fingers to keep from screaming as his little motions turn into tight circles, smaller, lighter, teasing along the tip of her bud as he slams into her with increasing speed.

She is rocking shamelessly again, meeting his hips and hand stroke for stroke and nearly screaming, pulling at her own hair, grasping her breast as best she can through her corset.

She is half-aware of him moaning at the sight of her, his thrusts becoming irregular, jerking against her, his hand still toying where they are joined.

"Yes, do it, love, come for me. Do it. I want to see you come around me."

"Oh, oh, oh!"

And she does. She falls over the edge, shatters all around him, clenching and releasing. Elsie sees stars before her eyes as she shudders violently, cries out, her breath coming in little cries as she feels him thrust against her a few more times before he's coming apart on top of her, inside her, releasing his seed into her and collapsing down over her, kissing her neck and ear the side of her mouth - anywhere he can reach.

"Yes, my man, ah, gods, yes, mo ghaol."

"I love you," they breathe against one another between shallow pants, slowing hearts.

There is still so much to say, but at this moment, it's enough.

She clings to him, wraps her arms and legs around him, kisses his temple, his hair.

She can't imagine ever feeling more complete.


	11. Chapter 11

She is patting his hair, relishing the feel of his hot breath on her neck, when her legs begin to tremble, quite unused to the position they are currently held in.

Still, she doesn't say anything just yet, doesn't want to disturb this moment where they are together and there is nothing more — nothing more to say or do, or work out. They can pretend this solves everything.

He is the first to shift.

Planting his hands on either side of her he pushes up and looks down into her face. She can't help mirroring his endearing smile even as she wills her insides to settle down, tells her whirring mind to not ruin this moment. He kisses her nose as he begins to pull away, and she's surprised to find she could almost cry. Almost, but will not.

He slides out of her and the sensation only makes her feel more flustered. Gods, how she loves this man, how she wants him with her, beside her, inside her every day for the rest of her life. If only it were that simple.

She reaches up to touch his cheek and revels in the way it's a little rough as he nuzzles into her palm.

"Do you have to go back?"

She asks quietly, and despite her breaking heart, she tries not to reveal her emotions in her face. What would be the point in prolonging the inevitable?

He surprises her by shaking his head.

"The family are staying with friends this evening and insisted I stay and enjoy the evening with the staff. Their friends have a large staff and his lordship swore he'd do just as well with a footman there. And I'm not the butler at Duneagle. I don't have to lock up. I have probably missed curfew by now, and anyway, I doubt if anyone even misses me, the state I've been in since I saw you last."

He explains it all so simply, talks as if this works it all out.

"But you do have to leave tomorrow evening, do you not? I thought that was what Mrs. Patmore mentioned."

He nods grimly, looks down at his hands, and she cannot help but be utterly charmed, for he is so serious, even when he's half-naked and just made her scream his name to the heavens.

"Right, I suppose we have tonight then, yes?"

He gives her an odd look and she smiles at him benignly, tries not to burden him with the whirlwind of emotions blowing through her. She is happy, elated, more satisfied than she has ever been in her entire life, and yet she feels hollow now, there is a gnawing at her gut.

"Let us to bed," she says because she will have this. She will take this from him if he will allow it, will curl against his side and pretend. She will pretend that she did not make a mess of things, that she did not give herself to another man in the house of her dead husband, she will pretend that she ever has a chance of being with this man who undoubtedly loves her, but never more than service, never more than Downton or the family, or his work.

No, they have both scratched an itch. One that has been plaguing them for the better part of twenty years, but she will not pretend this changes things, not really. Not for longer than tonight.

She says none of this, of course. Merely looks at him with soft eyes and fluttering lashes, stands from the table, ignores the twinge of previously unused muscles, and holds her hand out to him, bids him to bed again.

She watches as he collects his shorts, slips them on quickly, and gathers his other belongings from her kitchen floor. With his other hand, he takes hers.

They ascend the stairs together.

In her room, she lights the lonely lamp at her bedside, bends to remove her boots.

When she is finished, she turns to face him.

He is looking uncertain, shifting from socked foot to socked foot, and she has the sudden urge to care for him, to be tender with him as she has craved so many times before. She hopes he will allow it, knows how men can be, indulging in your body one minute, slapping your hand away the next.

Knows how he hates sentimentality.

She holds her hands out and finds she's terribly relieved when he drops his trousers on her chair, arranges his shoes carefully beneath and then comes to her. Charles Carson, in his shirt and pants and socks, shuffles across her floor and joins her.

Carefully, she begins to unbutton his shirt where she had stopped before, halfway down. When she gets it free, she runs her hands across the opening, then up and over his shoulders where she catches the fabric again, and admires the solid strength of him as she pushes it off.

He watches, doesn't move as she folds it carefully, passes him, places it on the same chair as his trousers, returns to stand behind him. He is facing the bed and she needs him to turn, but she is momentarily struck again by the sheer size of him, her gentle giant, and for once indulges one of her insane compulsions. She reaches around him from behind and nuzzles into the middle of his back, places a few gentle kisses there, delights in the way his hands come to rest over hers, the way he leans down and brings her hand as high as he can to kiss her fingertips.

She sighs. It is the first time she has ever done this, but she will miss it.

She will miss him when he goes.

Gently pulling away, she places her hands on his biceps, also firm from years of carrying heavy trays, of balancing them perfectly on the tips of his fingers, and giving them a little squeeze, tells him to turn around, toward her.

His hands come to rest on her hips, but she is already sinking to her knees, pretending she doesn't feel the hardwood beneath grinding into her joints. Carefully, she tucks her fingers just into the edge of his shorts, where the button is pulled tight around his waist.

Slowly, she unbuttons, pulls. Reveals him inch by inch until he is there in front of her face, and she is surprised that he seems half-ready for her again so soon, looks up at him with a cocked brow and he gives her a sheepish grin, shrugs.

That is not what she had been trying to accomplish, so she tuts, but smirks so that he knows she doesn't mean it and then runs her hands down his strong legs until she instructs him with little pats on his ankles to lift his feet one at a time so that she can remove his shorts completely.

When she does, she folds them, reaches behind her to toss them on the chair as well. They land a little askew, but neither of them complains.

All that's left are his socks, and it's silly and charming to see him standing there with them and nothing else.

She pushes against his hips and walks forward on her knees until he is sitting on the bed and she can slide them off, trail her fingers along his ankles, his feet, the tips of his toes, which he wiggles at her causing her to giggle.

She only wishes every giggle, every happy sigh weren't followed with the immediate reminder of his leaving Scotland tomorrow evening. His leaving her.

She bites her lip so it won't quiver. Looks up at him and raises her hands so he can help her up, and he does. When she is before him, she looks into his eyes, so deep and loving. She touches his face, runs her fingers along his cheekbones, his brow, the bridge of his nose, traces his lips with the lightest touch, only presses when he gives them a gentle kiss.

Then, leaning forward, she mirrors his earlier actions and kisses his nose. Smiles at him sweetly.

She loves him so.

She watches him watch her as he reaches forward himself, gently lifts his tie over her head, tosses it carelessly on the floor, and puts his fingers at the hollow of her neck, traces the line of her bodice with his fingertip until he is touching her shoulder, silently telling her to turn around.

She presents him with her back and sighs as his fingers begin to work at the buttons there. With him sitting and her standing between his legs, they are at the perfect height, the perfect angle to accomplish their task.

He works diligently and slowly, unbuttoning every fastening with deliberate care until her dress hangs loosely on her shoulders and he pushes it forward, down, watches as she lets it fall to the ground and then steps out of it.

With her back still turned, she picks it up, moves to hang it, makes no particular show of herself as she does so, is not trying to entice him so much as memorize him. She wants to remember what it would feel like to be  _real_  with Charles Carson, to be his woman, his wife, not just his lover, not just his very good friend.

Therefore, when she turns back toward him and hears his gasp, she is momentarily startled, her eyes jumping up to meet his.

His eyes are wide and dark, his mouth agape.

She moves to go to him, to give him a gentle kiss and tell him to stop being foolish, but as soon as she starts, his hand comes up, motions for her to stop.

"Please, just stand there a moment. Let me look at you. Mrs. Hughes...Elsie...if I had known, I always suspected, but if I had known for sure as I do now..." he shakes his head. "You are beautiful," he says and she can't meet his eyes, looks down and watches with double embarrassment as a flush rises up her chest.

When he has apparently gotten his fill, he speaks again.

"Will you let me?" he waves her toward him and she goes. "Can I try? Admittedly, I don't have much experience-"

She barks out a laugh that startles them both in this delicate mood, but she can't help it, can't contain her chuckle.

He looks up at her with a quizzical expression, almost hurt, and she shakes her head, presses one hand to her chest and the other to his face, meets his eyes.

"I'm not laughing at you, love, it's only, you say you haven't had much experience, but I couldn't tell it from..." she trails off, unsure how to continue. "well, from before."

He looks at her hard for a moment, then down at his hands and she starts to panic. She knows Charles is a prideful man, hates to be laughed at, knows how it riles him up. That's half the reason she's done it for years, after all.

"Elsie, I'm not...proud of the man I was before I came to Downton," he says, fidgeting his fingers, finally looking her in the eye. "I am not a man free of sin. I wish I was for you, wish I could go back and change my actions, but I can't. I have to live with them. There have been...women, in the past, when I was on the stage and a few thereafter, but not for years now. Not for many, many years."

He is holding her hands now and looking at her meaningfully, and she doesn't know what to make of it, isn't sure what she's supposed to say. She suspected, of course, especially since she'd learned of his time on the stage those years ago. And of course, no naïve was that skilled, she was sure. Plus, he was and  _is_  a very attractive man, sure to garner his share of...offers. And yet, part of her is hurt, a stupid, silly, schoolgirl part, who wishes he had somehow always been loyal to her, even before he met her.

She brushes the thought aside just as quickly as it occurs to her, because it is foolish, and after all, she is not a complete innocent herself. She has had her fair share of hurried kisses behind the barn, of searching hands and hitched skirts, has heard her allotment of vulgar propositions and empty promises. She has lain with Joe and pressed against him. Even if she has never done  _that_  before, she has never lied about not living in a sack.

"It's all right, my man." she leans forward and kisses his brow. "It's all right."

She is surprised when he hugs her, right around the middle, pressing his face against her breasts where they strain from her corset and breathes in deeply.

"What is that scent?" he asks, and she wrinkles her brow because she rarely wears any scent at all, has definitely not on this particular evening.

"I'm not sure what you mean?" she says.

"Hmm." he hums into the valley between her breasts, nuzzles there. "it's sweet, but delicate, like flowers or..." he trails off.

And she is feeling a little flustered, surprised he has noticed.

"Oh," she says, "um, it's rose. I use rose-scented soap."

He hums again.

"Have you always?"

She chuckles, runs her fingers through his hair, is forgetting momentarily to feel sad.

"Not always. Not when I was a wee lass trudging around the farm, but I suppose since you've known me, yes. It's not very fancy, nothing intoxicating like the upstairs ladies, but it's always been my little treat for myself."

"I disagree," he says, "I find it quite intoxicating."

Still flustered, she pushes a bit at his shoulders.

"Get away with you," she says.

"Now, are you going to finish your job or am I going to have to revoke your endorsement as a valet?"

He chuckles now himself, moves his fingers up and down the sides of her corset, toys with the garters that still hang loose. She makes a mental note to remember her knickers are flung somewhere downstairs for her to collect tomorrow. She smiles.

"Well?"

"I'm afraid I'm no lady's maid, Mrs. Hughes. You might have to help me."

She nods her understanding.

"Give it a go," she says.

He reaches to turn her around again to get at her corset ties, but she stands firm, if he thinks she's going to let him do that and then have to re-lace the thing tomorrow, he shall be very disappointed.

"From the front then?" he asks, and she nods.

She wants to ask him how he can't know this, how he can drive her crazy with the tip of his tongue, know exactly where to touch her, but does not know how to release a corset, but she thinks she knows, has just had it demonstrated to her on the kitchen table.

She tries not to give in to the bolt of jealousy that shoots through her.

He is running his finger along the busk now, one fastening at a time, and she's getting antsy, wants to be pressed against him, to start her night of make-believe. So, she helps.

"Squeeze me," she says, and they both chuckle a bit as his head shoots up, his eyes wide as they meet hers.

"Here," she clarifies, "like this."

And she places his hands at the top of her rib cage, shows him how to press and pull until her corset is off, until she is turning from him in just her shift and stockings and tucking it away.

When she comes back, he reaches out to her before she has walked toward him and when she is near enough, he gathers her in his arms, whispers against her neck and ear.

"Elsie, you are so beautiful. More than I deserve. More than any man deserves."

"You are being dreadfully daft," she says, even as she hugs him back, can feel him shake his head no.

"Elsie?" he says as if his thought has just occurred to him.

"Hmm?" she says, dead weight against him, perfectly happy to let him hold her up, press her against him like this.

"May I take down your hair?"

Her eyes remain closed, but her brow wrinkles. It seems an odd request to her, but perhaps it isn't if they are doing the same thing, if they are both saying goodbye.

"All right," she says, and spends the next several minutes showing him how to locate the pins holding her hair in place, to pull them out gently so they don't snag.

When her hair is free, he runs his fingers through it, massages her scalp, and she thinks if he keeps that up she will fall asleep where she stands.

He does for a few more blissful moments, moves his hands down her neck to the straps of her shift, then down her arms. His fingers settle at the hem of the light cotton at her knees and slowly push it up, up until she is raising her arms and he is pulling it over her head.

The sigh he lets out is almost euphoric.

"Yes, perfect. Beautiful."

He puts his hands on her, but it is almost reverent, the way he gently cups the heaviness of her, runs his fingers over her nipples. She shudders.

It is only a moment before he finds her scar.

"What is this?" he asks, running his fingers over it, and she swallows hard, wills him not to be too angry with her. She will tell him because she feels it is only fair. Feels she can't hold anything back anymore.

"It's nothing, love. I had a scare last year, that's all, but it was fine and I am fine. Healthy as can be."

She tries to rush it out, watches his expression as he flits his gaze between her scar and her eyes.

"What was it?" he says.

She feels cold inside.

"It turned out to be nothing, I told you."

"What did they think it might've been?"

She closes her eyes, keeps her hands steady on his shoulders.

"Cancer," she whispers.

She has not told anyone other than Glenna, and even she does not know of the nights she spent awake, crying, desolate over the waste her life had turned out to be. Joe had been very ill at the time, very near his own death, and she had wondered, briefly, if this would be her punishment for marrying a man out of convenience, for denying herself and her nature and going another way. She would lose a good man, a good friend, and she would die with him, be buried by his side for eternity.

On her darkest nights, she wondered if that might not be so bad.

He is pressed against her again now, placing airy kisses on the little scar.

"I'm sorry," he says, over and over. "I am so sorry, my love. I...I wish..."

"Shh," she says, because there's no point in wishing, not by her estimation, she has wished all her life and only ended up with halves at every turn. Even now, her greatest wish, to be loved by Charles Carson has been fulfilled, and he is leaving for England tomorrow.

She is not foolish enough to think that letters will be enough, that a few half and one full day in the Summer will make a life, but she will take what he will give her tonight. She knows that now.

She feels wetness against her breast and knows he is crying, but it doesn't matter, because she is too.

"Shh, love. I know, I know, but I am okay. I am here with you, alive and well, and I would like very much to crawl into bed by your side tonight, only it seems I am still not quite ready."

She smiles at him and he looks up at her with teary eyes, then down to her stockings which have fallen askew without her garters to hold them up, and he gives a watery laugh at the sight.

She nudges him with her hip,

"That'll be enough of that, thank you," she says, but she can't stop the quirk of her lips as she says it.

Gently, he reaches down to remove her stockings, trailing his fingers down her legs in a way that makes her shiver.

After she has stepped out of them, put them away, she walks toward him again, kisses his brow.

"Let's go to bed, my man."

They both start pulling back the covers and pretend to not be thinking that they are about to sleep together in the bed she shared with Joe.

When they have turned out the light, are illuminated under the covers only by the moon, and she is tucked against his side, neither of them speaks.

She toys with his fingers where they rest on her stomach, and he kisses her shoulder where it peeks out beneath the sheets.

"I didn't know you had freckles on your shoulder," he comments after a while.

She snorts just a little.

"Well, I should think not. I didn't run around the Abbey in nigh but a nightdress very often."

He laughs too.

"Ah, but you did every once in a while? I'm truly sorry I missed it."

She slaps his hand in hers.

"Cheeky," she says.

"Look who's talking," he retorts, wiggling against her obscenely.

"Charles Carson! I never!"

She pretends to be scandalized, but they are both laughing, and she is desperately ignoring how much worse this easy intimacy they have is going to make it when he leaves her.

"I love you, you know," he says, after a pause.

She hums her assent.

"So you've said," she replies.

"Yes, but I really do, and you ought to know. I haven't said it the countless times I have wanted to, so now I am making up."

She smiles a sad smile he can't see with her back to him like it is.

"I love you, too," she whispers.

"Goodnight, my love," he says, and before she knows it he is sleeping peacefully beside her.

Her mind is racing, thinking of all the ways they have done this wrong, breaking her own heart with every realization that this has been their hello and their goodbye, because he will leave tomorrow, and when he does, she will tell him that this must end, must never happen again.

She cannot take a half-love. Not when she feels for him as deeply as she does. She cannot take holiday trysts and secret assignations when he happens to be near enough to engage in them. She has been so consumed by her passion, the act of their love performed, that she has made another terrible mistake.

She has given him her body in the house of her dead husband, has proved herself as awful as she always suspected be might be, deep down. Her mother's screams of it have always haunted her in the back of her mind there, behind the doors she doesn't unlock. She is the no-good slut her mother had accused her of being as a lass when she was first stepping out, shirking some of her farm duties, leaving them for Glenna and whatever poor Beck could manage, and even though he seems to love her in spite of that, seems to accept her and  _want_  her for some unknown reason, she knows that he deserves more, so much more than her.

He might love her or think he does, and she may love him from the depths of her soul, but she is not naive enough to think that love is always enough. Knows it is not in their case.

She has made a mistake, perhaps her worst, because all she wants in the depths of her soul is for him to be happy, and she knows he could not be with her. Not in the long run.

She has lain with him led them both deeper into this web from which there seems to be no escape.

He will not leave service, could not be a farmer if he wanted to, no matter his talents in the garden.

She cannot leave her sisters, cannot abandon them as she did so selfishly those many years ago, cannot go back to Downton to...what? Keep a shop? She certainly could not go back to the house. They'd never have her after her rather shocking departure, and besides, she is sure Anna has been her replacement and will be doing wonderfully. No, there is no room for her there, either.

They are at a stalemate, and it breaks her heart, will break his.

The only mercy she can do him, them, is to make it a clean one.

Squeezing her eyes shut and feeling her tears leak down her cheeks, Elsie tries to memorize every feeling, every sensation of his body tucked next to hers, sleeping soundly.

"Goodnight, Charlie," she says after a while, still staring blankly into the darkness of her room.


	12. Chapter 12

He is the first to wake and does so with a peaceful smile. The bed is warm and soft and smells of roses.

It is still early, criminally early, but he will need to get back to the castle soon if he is to slip in without notice.

They have turned in their sleep, he flat on his back, she curled around him, one hand on his chest, the other tucked under her chin. Her thigh is draped over his hips, and he strokes it idly as he begins to wake fully.

He can't stop smiling as he moves the arm he has around her to play with the long strands of her hair, still so dark, brushing it against the smooth white skin of her back.

His heart is warm and full with her in his arms. It is all he has ever needed. He thinks even before he knew her he must have longed for her. She is his match, his perfect fit.

He only hopes he has not shocked her, not scared her off with his passion, his patient insistence that she  _let him_. It was only that he had absolutely dreamed of it, for years, just as he'd said. And he's not lied about his sin either, about the folly of his youth, the girls in the halls and the sweet burn of alcohol on their tongues and his.

He's never touched a woman who hasn't offered, propositioned, assented, but he also hadn't exactly held back as a younger lad. He had given into the foolish jealousy between Charlie and himself. Had allowed Grigg to get under his skin. It had become a sort of unspoken competition between them.

The more Grigg insisted he was a stick-in-the-mud, with no sense of fun and not much to offer the ladies in the way of conversation or much else, the more Charles had become determined to prove him wrong, had finally stopped resisting the advances of the showgirls and the barmaids, had found he didn't mind a bit of attention now and then.

He had never resorted to Charlie's tactics though, never been as boisterous or demanding as his partner, but he found that most women liked that better, liked his calm demeanor, helped him learn when they found he listened, cared about their needs too.

He had cared, in spite or perhaps because of his guilt for what he was doing to them,  _with_ them. He learned to take pleasure and to give it and repented a thousand times when he finally saw the light, the err of his ways, returned to Downton and made himself into the sort of man he could be proud of instead of the foolish cad of his youth.

There weren't so very many women he'd had in the most intimate sense, few enough that he had genuine affection for them all, had at the time quite enjoyed their rushed affairs with hiked skirts in back rooms, had even wanted to marry Alice before Grigg had gotten to her, pushed him into realizing the idiot he had been for indulging in such depravity. He could hardly believe that he'd ever been a young chap who could shock and charm as he had.

Until last night, when it had all rushed up, when she'd been touching him to desperately, saying those wonderful and wicked things, asking,  _begging_  him. He could not stand it, could not stop twenty years of longing as it burst the dam.

He knows he should be ashamed, knows he should not have let their first time be so frantic, so wanton, but he is convincing himself that it might be okay, that he had definitely pleased her ( _more than once_ , he thinks, smugly), and that with Elsie, though it looked quite the same as those youthful dalliances, it has been something entirely different.

He loves her and now he knows that she loves him back. They had undressed each other slowly and carefully, had pressed against each other closely and drifted off.

And in that way, she is the only woman he has ever slept with.

There is nothing that will keep him from her now. He hasn't worked it out yet. Isn't sure what he will do, but he's had his mother's ring in his dresser at Downton for over twenty years and he thinks it's about time he puts it where it belongs.

He smiles even broader at that, can't resist asking her quietly.

"And what would you think of that, hmm, love? What would you say? Would you bite that pretty lip for me? Give me a kiss?"

He is looking down at her and her eyes are still closed, her breathing even, which is why he startles when she says "is that your idea of a whisper, Mr. Carson? Because if it is, I'm sorry to tell you I don't believe you're capable of it with a voice like that."

He chuckles and watches as she smiles too, as her pretty face moves up and down with the shaking of his chest.

She has freckles there too, splashed across her nose and cheeks and he is really in trouble, sees no point in denying he's besotted, would do anything for her.

"Sorry, love. I didn't mean to wake you."

She hums against him, presses her face into his chest and stretches against his side, places a little kiss on his breastbone.

"Good morning," She says, looking up at him finally with bleary eyes, and it's not quite right. There's something a little off about her tone, but he chooses not to dwell, not let his mind play tricks and run away with him.

They are fine. They are good. They are finally on the same side again.

Literally.

"Good morning," he says, turns to face her so they are nose to nose, his hand gliding along the skin of her hip beneath the covers.

"Do you have to go soon?" She asks, tracing his brows with her fingers, moving to the shell of his ear.

He tries not to shiver, nods instead.

"Yes, soon. I don't want to be caught sneaking in like an errant hall boy, but perhaps I could see you later? Would you meet me near the train station before we depart? I'd like very much to say a proper goodbye."

He watches as she swallows, looks up at him beneath her lashes and nods.

"Yes, Charlie. I'll meet you to say goodbye."

He can't quite make out her odd phrasing, can sense that something is wrong, but not what. Hopes she's not going off him already. Hopes she's not having regrets. His worries about his behavior last night resurface and he rushes to fix it, looks for her assurance.

"You know I love you right?" He asks her, soft, pleading, is relieved when she nods again.

"And you love me too?"

She looks up at him squarely.

"More than anything."

He nods, once, feels relief spread through his chest. She will give him another chance. He will show her that it can be slow and soft.

Promising himself this, he gathers her close and presses several sweet kisses against her brow, her hair.

"Well then, that's alright, isn't it?"

* * *

She doesn't cry as he walks away, doesn't yell and run after him as she wants to. She doesn't beg him to stay.

They had dressed slowly in the dark, helping each other as much as hindering with little touches, affectionate squeezes.

The kiss they had shared at his parting was enough to make her thighs clench, her heart race. She had been grateful there was no time for anything else as she wouldn't have been able to resist and it would have been a cruelty. Would have made everything even harder.

She should have denied him even the heated kiss. That would have been the kind thing to do, the merciful, right thing. But she has always been a bit bad-hearted she supposes, could not resist a final taste of him and his love for her.

She watches his back until he has disappeared from view in the misty grey of early morning.

She turns inside, presses her door closed, engages the lock. She doffs her shawl, wrings her hands, wanders into the kitchen.

She looks at the table, the chairs, sits down at the head and weeps.

* * *

"And just what sort of time do you call this?"

He should have expected Mrs. Patmore to be up, should have known she would notice when he hadn't returned.

He shushes her urgently, waving his hat at her.

"Quiet, Mrs. Patmore! You'll wake the whole household."

She sniffs at him.

"Would serve you right for skulking off. Where have you been? What have you been doing?"

To his horror, he blushes, feels himself turn beet red under her gaze.

"Ah," She says, realization dawning on her face. "She decided to give you that happy memory then, did she?"

He wrinkles his brow, torn between shame and confusion.

"What?"

She waves him away.

"Nothing. Nothing. You better be off before you're late for breakfast. I'll try to give you a little time." She says, nodding toward where he can hear the castle cook proper, bustling and banging in the kitchen.

He nods at her, heads up the stairs.

In his room, he takes a deep breath, feels giddy. He doesn't even care that it's smaller than his one at Downton, doesn't care that the mattress is hard and pokes him in the back, or that it's cold and impersonal.

He is going home today.

And even though he dreads leaving her behind, he knows it's necessary for now, until he can get back and make the proper arrangements, return with the ring, promise her he will follow her anywhere she wants to go.

Still, he hopes he can convince her to come back to Downton. He can't deny he loves it there. He loves the family and the house and the life he leads as the respectable head of staff. Downton has been his other great love and he hopes very much that Elsie might at least consider it as a place for them to settle down.

He thinks she will, maybe.

After all, she will be his wife, and a wife's first priority should be the happiness of her husband. It is the way of things.

Besides, what would he know of farming? How could he change his whole life now when he is pushing sixty, has not done manual labor in that sense since he was a young boy?

He mulls over these things as he dresses swiftly. Prepares to pack his lordship and himself after a quick bite of toast and tea.

Perhaps he could, for her. After all, her happiness will be his duty as much as the reverse.

They will have to talk about it, but it all seems so inconsequential now, now that she knows and he knows and they are united in their love in all but the law.

He grins, cannot stop.

He has told Elsie to meet him at a little tea shop near the station at three o'clock. The train will depart at three forty-five, but it will be natural for him to arrive early, to help bring the cases and wait for the family to board.

He looks in the little mirror on the dresser and takes in his face. He still looks the same — could do with a proper shave, but other than that his features remain strictly familiar. He isn't sure what he was expecting, except he feels utterly changed, like a new man with her love tucked safely in his heart and he wondered if it would somehow be evident on his face.

The only sign is his goofy grin, his twinkling eyes.

He carefully schools his features, sets his lips in a grim line, and reminds himself he is not a silly schoolboy, he is the formidable butler of Downton Abbey, the leader of his staff there and here with him, and still has duties to fulfill.

* * *

She takes her time dressing for him, for them, for what she's sure will be their last goodbye because after this, after what she has to do, he will never want to see her again.

Of that, she is certain.

Elsie twists her hair with practiced ease, slides the pins through her tresses, against her scalp, remembers his fingers there and bites back tears.

She has been this way all morning. Teary at the drop of a hat. Had even sat in the bath earlier and cried over the smell of her own soap.

She thinks even with just the few memories she has here now of him, of them, that she will have to sell the farmhouse. Will be unable to stand it between these walls where she has had both the greatest joy and biggest heartbreak of her life. Where she has committed her greatest sin.

And yet, for the same reasons, knows she will not. This is the one place she has had him in any real way, and she will cling to the ghost of their love as long as she can.

Elsie wipes at her eyes and tells herself she is being dramatic, that she has survived worse. She has cared for her sister, has taken her beatings, has tended to maids who men have gotten too rough with, has come through a cancer scare and buried a husband.

Elsie's life has been built on punishment, on loss. She has endured. Will endure this too.

Still, she takes special care in picking out her dress, something practical that makes her feel shielded. Something that will remind him she isn't much to miss. Not really. She doesn't do her hair in a way he will like. Doesn't bother with rouge or lip color to make herself look less sallow. What would be the point? Her heart is breaking and she is about to break his too.

She doesn't want to do this. Every fiber of her being is rebelling, telling her to meet him at the tea shop and agree to whatever plan he has concocted, to ignore the misery that distance and torn loyalties will subject them both too, to take whatever he will give her and run because it would be better than nothing.

And if she were a more selfish woman, that is exactly what she'd do, but as it is, she loves him, loves him more than she can say, which is why she will do this for him. She will not make him choose between his life and her, will not pretend they can play house from miles away, will not keep his heart caught up with hers when he could be free, retire happy, without burden, could perhaps meet a shopkeeper or the postmistress.

Her stomach twists.

It is not what she wants, but she will put that last, always, to what he needs.

With a final adjustment to her hat, Elsie squares her shoulders, shudders out a long breath.

The time for tears is over. She will not cry when she sees him, will not cry when she breaks them both to pieces.

He will heal and that is what matters

If she never does, what of it? She will fill the role of the old widow all the better.

With that sobering thought, which only serves to poke at her guilty heart and reaffirm her resolve, Elsie sets off toward the shop.

* * *

He is sitting in the tea shop with a book, has already ordered them a pot, fixed her a cup the way she likes it because it is almost time for her to arrive and she is never late if she can help it.

His Elsie is impeccable and because of this, he is sure her tea will still be hot when she arrives.

He hears the door chimes tinkle and looks up. She takes his breath away as she approaches, breezing in with her natural elegance.

Her dress is simple but flattering, and knowing what is under it only makes it more so. She looks as radiant as ever, perhaps with slightly dark circles under her eyes, but that can be easily attributed to their activities the night before.

He gives her a broad grin when she spots him and doesn't read into the fact that hers is less bold, more careful. Guarded. Perhaps she is simply being cautious in this place where so many know her, where rumors could easily spread.

"Hello, darling," he whispers when she's close enough for just her to hear.

"Hello," She replies, but does not take his outstretched hand or allow him to kiss her cheek, dodges him gracefully.

He does find this odd, but says nothing, pulls out her chair and tucks her in, feels a sort of dread permeating him now, an anxiousness with which he isn't generally familiar.

"What is it?" He asks without preamble, because he can't go back to this space, can't force himself back into limbo.

She apparently feels the same way for she is straight forward, her tone blunt as she speaks.

"I'm afraid this is goodbye, Mr. Carson. Not just for now, but for good. I think we both know it will never work, not with the distance and our responsibilities to our respective families. I will.." she swallows here, hard. "I will treasure all of our memories, but I'm sure you understand as well as I do why this cannot continue."

He is flabbergasted, blown away. This cannot be happening. She can't be saying these words. He can't be hearing her right.

His brows draw together, he can feel a tense heat rising within him. She is ruining everything. She is not making any sense, has not given any indications that these were her feelings as of mere hours ago as he kissed her goodbye against the frame of her front door.

She has once again jumped ahead of him, decided for herself, sought only the input of her own stubborn mind. She has done as he has seen her do so many times before and has taken it upon herself to decide what's bloody best for him, for them, without even consulting him, without even involving him in the conversation.

"No, Mrs. Hughes. I'm afraid I don't see the truth in your words. The plain fact of the matter is that I love you, that I want to be with you. The rest are details, small things to be ironed out. Can you not see that?"

She shakes her head, looks down at the table between them.

"You say that now, but if it came down to choosing, then what? I would never ask you to leave Downton for me, never ask you to give up your livelihood. I would be filled with guilt and you would come to resent me. And I could not move back there, there's nothing in Downton for me now."

Her last statement hits him like a punch in the gut. Nothing for her? What about him? Is he not worth enough to her? Is her love perhaps less deep than his own, less all-encompassing? More fit for a quick lay, a night pressed up against each other and that was that?

He doesn't want to believe it, but doesn't know what else to think when they have finally made it this far and she is choosing the other way again, is turning any way but toward him.

Perhaps he has been stupid to believe their love was evenly matched.

He feels what sorry bit remained of his heart in the first place shatter between her fingers, under her heel. She has crushed him. He has been willing to give her everything he has to offer and she has not even glanced at it before throwing it back in his face.

He has always been blind to her, unwilling to accept her as anything but his high esteem, his version of perfection, his great love, but perhaps it is time to open his eyes.

She does not want him, just as Alice had not wanted him in the end. They had him, had their fill and then cast him aside. He suspects he may be unwantable, unloveable all together.

It hurts, so much worse and dreadfully deeper than Alice, which he previously hadn't thought possible, hurts even worse than the night she'd left with Joe, but he will take the hint this time. Will not be a sore loser, a blind fool. Will not hold her where she does not want to be.

"I understand, Mrs. Hughes," he says, looking at her face, her eyes, her nose, her lips, trying to remember what they looked like in the soft morning light only hours ago, trying to commit the patterns of her freckles to his memory.

No, she does not want him after all, and she is letting him down gently. She has lusted after him, has mistaken that for love and now that it is fulfilled, she is asking him to let her go. It is a dance he is unfortunately familiar with.

He will take it this time with as much good grace as he can muster, will not let her see him crumble again, for the sake of his pride if nothing else. But he knows for sure he will never open his heart again, will never feel love or joy or happiness ever again now that she has rejected him, cast him out of the home he has only just found within her heart.

He is hollowed out now, gutted and empty.

She has taken everything.

He swallows back the thick lump in his throat. Tries to look at her without the heartache, the righteous ire he feels bubbling in him again. The pain in his chest is deep, it is burning and he isn't sure he will live through this. Has tolerated quite enough, he thinks. He has not known himself to be so melodramatic, but he has also not known himself to find and lose his deepest love in the matter of a few hours. He has been ready to lay his life at her feet and she has been plotting her escape – for the second time.

He is an imbecile.

He looks at her hard.

"So this is goodbye then? For good? That is your final word on the matter?"

She nods.

"I'm afraid so. I want you to know…I am sorry and I— I will miss you, Mr. Carson. You are a good man. I hope you will be well."

He is standing, can't take another moment of this and maintain his composure. He picks up her hand, tries to memorize the exact weight of it, it's softness, presses a gentle kiss to the back of it and uses his iron will to meet her eye.

"I— likewise, Mrs. Hughes. And I am not sorry. Not for a single thing. Please know that knowing you…has been the highlight of my life."

He means every word, means them and hopes she knows it because though they are true, he will never forgive her for this. Never get over her letting him in only to push him away again when finally, finally things are supposed to be perfect.

Even as he thinks it, as he collects his hat, leaves his money on the table, and walks away without meeting her eyes again, without looking at her for one more second, he knows that he is lying to himself. That he would be there whenever and wherever she called him to and hates himself all the more for it.

His exit is punctuated by the jingling of the shop door.


	13. Chapter 13

When she gets home, Elsie rips her hat from her head, not caring that it snags, not caring where it lands as she tosses it behind her.

She runs up the stairs and into her room, tears at the fastenings of her dress, needs it off—off her!

Frantically, she undoes her corset, flings it off, removes her stockings, watches with unfeeling eyes as the delicate material runs under the frantic scratching of her nails.

When she is done, she is panting, her chest rising and falling in an unfamiliar way, her heart still beating as quickly as it was at the teashop. She sits against her bed in her shift and knickers, tries to breathe.

She hopes no one has seen her walk home, hopes that no one had called her name or tried to get her attention because she knows she would not have heard it, could not have heard anything beyond the rushing in her ears that refuses the cease.

She is not crying, but she almost wishes she were, some sort of release for whatever is charging through her right now like a sickness.

She is having pains in her chest and wonders if losing him will finally be what does her in, especially having lost him by her own hand, her own sharp words.

She crawls up into her bed and curls onto her side, presses her face to the pillow he had used and she has not yet washed, breathes in the smell of his pomade and whatever other potions comprised the rest of his scent.

She presses her hand to her breast, wills the sharp pain to stop tugging so, stop tearing at her ribs, holds her breath to try to stop the panting that is rapidly morphing into something more malicious, something close to a dry heave, and she will not be ill.

She refuses.

"Please," she says aloud to no one, unsure what she's even pleading for.

Her heart is still shuddering in her chest, her breathing quick and wispy. She remembers the feeling she had standing in Glenna's kitchen. She remembers the certainty that seeing him again would be too much for her, would crumple her iron resolve. It hadn't come just then, with Glenna there to hold her up, or later with the fair and her blue dress and her pathetic attempt to become something new. Something beyond the dowdy housekeeper, the bedraggled barn lass. But it was all distraction, like thunder, lightning before the storm came beating down.

This is something different. This is aching emptiness is the calm. It is a stillness that feels far more foreboding. It is less irritating, less enraging, less sorrowful than the weeks that have preceded it. It does not dig beneath her fingernails or under her eyelids, it does not make her tremble. Instead, she feels impossibly heavy.

She doesn't move as the light shifts, as afternoon wears to evening and then night and she's still half tangled in the sheets, her hair unbrushed, her clothes flung about her. She doesn't care. She can feel the painful emptiness of her stomach, doesn't care about that either.

Her breathing has evened.

It doesn't make any difference to her at all.

This silence is different. It pins her where she lies and it is heavy and hopeless, but blissful because she is finally feeling nothing. Is completely spent and hollow. There is a sadness there, she supposes, lingering at the very bottom of the well of nothingness, but it is a sour pleasure, a sweet sting beneath the nothingness that she deserves.

She has wasted her life, has made all the wrong decisions.

He is gone, she has forced him away.

And it doesn't matter one bit.

It is here now. What she had feared in the cinnamon-apple haze of her sister's kitchen. It is here and she is glad of it. The rain is finally beating down.

She stares into the dim grey light that barely illuminates her bedroom, curls her fingers into the sheets and surrenders.

* * *

Charles does not hate Elsie Hughes. He wishes that he could. Wishes it was that simple and straightforward. That love moved seamlessly into hate, adoration morphed into repulsion, but it is not like that, and therefore even as he seethes over her loss, even as his heart continues to break with every beat, he craves her.

It has been eight weeks, two whole months since he left her in that teashop and he has not asked what has become of her. Knows that Beryl has corresponded with her once or twice, but doesn't ask after her, brushes away all of the cook's attempts to open his heart and his mouth, to get him to speak to her

He won't.

More accurately, he does not think he can. The hurt he feels is deep and dark and feeds savagely on his rage that there is no one to blame.

He knows this because he has tried it.

He has tried to blame himself, has told himself over and over that he wasn't gentle enough with her, not understanding, that they didn't talk at all before he behaved like a detestable rogue. Then he remembers. He remembers her moans and her pleas and how very much she had seemed to want him, had called him a fool and professed her feelings and he can't convince himself that their joining, however desperate, could be the cause of her sending him away. Wonders if his initial assessment that she simply did not care for him to the extent that either of them thought, hoped, had been correct.

That doesn't sit quite right either, but it's as good a reason as any. It lurks.

He has tried blaming her, too. Has remembered over and over the night she informed him of her engagement to Joe, the whirlwind wedding that followed in Yorkshire, the pain like a knife in his heart as he tried to read between the lines of them, tried to understand why she would do such a thing and what she had wanted him to do about it, if anything. And then again. Did it again. Left him or rather forced him to leave her and he is so helplessly confused by it all. If she loved him, as she had said, even when she was with Joe, then why had she done it? Why had she caused this mess with her there and him here and neither one really happy?

Then he remembers Glenna and her golden eyes and the easy laughter he had seen between them the night of the fair. He remembers the freer quality to her hair and her dress and the hungry stares of the village men and he can't blame her. He can't blame her for wanting something different to this buttoned-up life of constant bells and endless stairs.

He doesn't know where to lay his hurt, so he keeps it. He wraps it up in layers of decorum and propriety, tops it with a stiff upper lip and moves forward.

Still, sometimes she gets to him, rises in his thoughts, unbidden and wreaks havoc.

Such is one of those times, early on this Sunday morning as the sun, less rare in these sweet, dying months of summer, bathes its weak rays over his face through his window and warms his skin.

He is groggy, has been up half the night, tossing and turning, and then fell into a fuzzy, confused sleep, filled with half-images of her and him, the suggestion of their skin pressed closely and kisses exchanged. Her melodic voice, accent thick, peppered with breathy exhalations and little intoxicating whimpers.

_Mr. Carson, please. Please, touch me._

He is in a state.

He rolls his eyes. Scrubs his hands over his eyes.

It is not often since he has gotten older that he wakes this way, but the urgent, tugging quality of his dreams has him gritting his teeth, willing himself not to touch.

_I want you, gods, I want you all the time. I **love**  you. Please._

Perhaps he does hate her.

He thinks it bitterly as he rises, prepares for a cold splash of water, the facing of grim reality without her here.

It does not help. Oh, the physical reaction abates, but he finds he is still terribly diverted. Little details of the dream continue to float back to him.

_Taste me, please, please, like before. Do it again, Charlie, gods, my man, please do it again._

He refuses to let her alter him though. Will not skip his routine no matter how ashamed he should be. His shame is all the more reason for him to continue on, so, he treks his way to church and pretends that his mind is not consumed entirely by a different sort of worship, of his lips on her skin, of her taste and the way she cried out beneath him.

He is grateful for the encroaching autumn, the cooler mornings, and the fact that since her departure he walks largely alone.

Mrs. Patmore had tried at first, of course.

When he'd pounded onto the train, heartbroken and confused. She'd prodded him lightly, asked if everything was alright, if he wanted to talk.

But he'd made that mistake in Scotland, one among many he never plans to relive.

As he wriggles into his pew, the one where he used to sit with her pressed to his side, he sighs, wills away the thought that he knows what she feels like now, the way her hips fit against his, the way her lips sang different praises than the hymns he's humming now when he knelt before her.

He shakes himself violently.

What is wrong with him?

He is in church. She does not want him.

He still loves her when he should hate her and he cannot stand it.

He is a sick man, a sick man who pays attention to every word Mr. Travis says, even as his fingers clench into his thighs.

Later, when the service has ended and he has more or less banished thoughts of her, which is about as best as he can hope for these days, he walks back toward the abbey slowly, as has been his habit of late any time he is fortunate enough to get away.

For some reason, he finds it stifling, feels he suddenly cannot breathe in too-small attic rooms, hates that he has to duck every doorframe. Little things that never bothered him before have started to crawl beneath his skin.

He had only just barely caught himself before he had outright rolled his eyes at some comment or another that Lord Grantham had made at last night's dinner.

He doesn't know what has come over him. Or rather  _who_ and he  _does_ and he thinks he'll have to do something now. He just doesn't know what.

It's only, he finds he doesn't have much of a taste for servitude anymore, not of this sort.

Finds his palate has altered altogether.

Carson looks across the grass to the abbey looming in the distance, and for the first time realizes it is not his home.

Even without her, even knowing he will never have her; Carson thinks it is perhaps time for him to walk on.

* * *

_Dear Mrs. Hughes,_

_I do hope this letter finds you well. I will not bother lying and saying I am not disappointed that you haven't written me back. I_ _am_ _disappointed, but I do hope perhaps that I do not flatter myself in thinking that your silence has very little to do with me and quite a lot to do with a certain bear of a butler._

_I don't know if it will please you or not or if it will not matter at all if I tell you that just Sunday last, Mr. Carson issued his intention to retire to His Lordship. He doesn't say much about it, but there is enough gossip amongst the rest of us to keep us busy._

_There is talk he is leaving for someone or because of someone._

_I do so hope it is you and that the reason is you've patched whatever lunacy's unfolded between the two of you. You're both enough to make the saints cry, I should think._

_But even if it is not, I pray that you won't lock the rest of us at Downton out of your heart and mind simply based on the acts of one fool-hearted man._

_Daisy asks after you often, and I know Mrs. Bates would be glad to see you as well._

_I do hope you will come, just for a week or two, to visit._

_Mr. Carson will be retired in a fortnight._

_Please come._

"Don't make me bang down your door in Scotland once again. Yours Sincerely, Beryl Patmore," Glenna finishes, folding the letter with a flourish and laying it on the kitchen table.

She chuckles.

"I like her."

Elsie doesn't respond outside of a weak smile.

Glenna lets the silence rest for a moment to see if Elsie will say something, anything.

She doesn't.

"Well, that's quite nice, isn't it? Were you close to them?"

"To whom?" Elsie asks, staring intently at the folded letter.

Glenna raises a brow.

"The girls. Daisy. I know you were fond of Anna, but it sounds like you were close to the other, too, if she's asked after you so often."

Elsie makes a little wobbling motion with her head.

"I suppose so. They were all like my own, in a way."

Glenna eyes her carefully. There has been something wrong with Elsie for months now. Well, there had been something wrong with her for much longer than that, but this was a different sort of wrong in that everything  _appeared_ right.

In the course of the last few weeks, Elise had worked out a deal with the McCleary's to farm her land next season in exchange for a cut of the profits, had sold the livestock count down to a more manageable number, and had begun to wash and dress with more precision than she had in months, like when she'd first returned home and was still so stern. She was the picture of propriety, had even politely agreed to meet with one of the local men who Arthur had assured them both had honorable intentions.

In the dying weeks of summer, she has almost been herself.

Almost.

And Glenna is suspicious of it, this careful calm, this demure smiling creature who has replaced her sister. So compliant, so easily steered. It is not honest.

It reminds Glenna very much of when they were lasses in the woods playing hide and seek or make-believe.

Elsie had the unnatural ability to construct hiding places that were nearly impossible to penetrate, whether they be physical or fantastical in nature, Elsie was gifted at not being found.

This sudden acceptance of farm life, of black clothes and pale face, of gentle smile and soft words, was like watching some other sort of entity operating her sister. It was an impeccable façade.

But a façade it was all the same.

Glenna has spent the last eight weeks trying to weasel her way past it.

"So, you'll go?"

She knows for sure she is right about whatever has consumed her sister from the inside out when this remark does not even provoke an eye roll, a snort, a biting retort.

"No, I don't think I will," Elsie says as she stands, glides over to the sink where she fills the kettle, stares out the window with that same vacant stare that is starting to give Glenna unpleasant chills.

She moves to stand behind her sister, places a hand on her shoulder.

"Why don't you? Please?"

Elsie turns, and Glenna thinks this may be the first time Elsie has actually looked her in the eyes in many weeks, although she had not been consciously aware of her doing otherwise until this moment, and it makes her breath pause.

"What would be the point, Glenna?" she rasps.

Glenna can feel her brow crinkling, her expression cracking, because this is perhaps the first forthright string of words she has gotten from her sister in the same long period.

"I think it would make all the difference in the world. You are someone outside of this place, Elsie. You have been for a long time."

She sees the hurt, determined look on Elsie's face at what she thinks is the suggestion that she somehow does not belong here and plows on.

"You have integrated yourself back into this life well. You have run your home and rekindled old friendships and visited me and poor Beck, and it's been so nice to have you, Elsie, truly, but you've been gone again for many weeks, and I think it's time you go get whatever piece of you that is still in that Yorkshire village back, don't you?"

Elsie is silent for a long while, but Glenna is used to this now. Has been for eight weeks since she discovered Elsie cold and stock still on her bed in the cold morning light and forced her into a warm bath.

She changes tactics.

"Is it you?"

"Is what me?" Elsie asks, turning the tap, taking the kettle to the stove, lighting it. "You'll stay for tea?"

Glenna nods, couldn't care less. Waves her hand impatiently.

"Is Mr. Carson leaving Downton for you?"

Elsie doesn't flinch, but Glenna doesn't miss that she's burnt her finger in her surprise at the question.

"Of course not," Elsie says. Simple. Dry. She does not elaborate.

"Do you wish it was?"

"No."

Glenna uses the advantage of her sister's turned back to shoot a pleading stare toward the heavens for patience.

"Why would Mrs. Patmore think it might be?"

Elsie's movements are a little tenser now, Glenna can see it in the set of her shoulders as she resolutely watches the kettle.

"I've no idea, I'm sure."

"Would it have anything to do with him being at the end of your lane as Arthur and I walked home from the fair?"

Elsie spins, and Glenna catches her clutching at her hip to still the keys that no longer jingle at her side.

"What do you mean?"

Her voice is still calm, deadly quiet, but Glenna can see some fire in her eyes.

If a fight is what it's going to take to break Elsie out of her stupor, then a fight she shall have.

"I think you know what I mean. I saw him walking this way after Arthur and I had bid him goodnight."

"Glenna, I-"

"And what happened when he arrived, puss, hmm? Did you send him away?"

"Glenna."

"Or did you invite him in perhaps? Even though it was late, even though you're a single woman and it would have been  _most_ improper?"

She is mocking her sister in the way only she knows how. She is picking right at the seams she knows Elsie has worked so hard to sew up - her concern with  _propriety_  her pride in her seemliness.

"There is nothing improper about having friends," Elsie says, and she's still calm, but frightfully red, a blush creeping down her neck.

Glenna smiles a little wicked smile, turns back toward the table, talks as she sits down at the head.

"Ah, so he was here, did come in then? I see. What did he want?"

* * *

_Me!_

She wants to scream it, wants to let it fly from the depths of her heart where it's been sitting, festering. Where she's been dreaming of him and waking trembling and sweating and guilty beyond imagination.

_He wanted me and I wanted him and I was a fool to believe it could have led anywhere else._

She wants to confess, but she can't bring the words up, can't swallow past the lump of hurt and pride in her throat to admit it even to Glenna.

"He was thirsty," she says instead, and it's asinine, sounds weak even to her own ears.

Still, she stands behind it resolutely.

"Oh, I just bet he was," Glenna says, darkly.

Elsie turns slightly and closes her eyes. She had feared but had not known for sure until this moment. Her secret is not one.

Her eyes flutter open and she looks desperately toward the window, wonders for not the first time if she might be able to escape through it to somewhere where her life is not like this— is less complicated, less of a burden.

"What do you want me to say, Glenna?"

Elsie asks because she does not want to play this game, will not talk in code and pretend the other can't see the truth as plain as day.

Elsie knows she is a shame to herself and to Glenna and to her family name.

Glenna clearly knows she's shamed herself.

They are only buying time, and Elsie asks because she is wondering for the thousandth time what the point is of any of this?

She cannot change her actions any more than she can the nose on her face. Would likely admit she wouldn't want to change them even if she could, but refuses to even give that little voice the time of day. It is what has got her here in the first place.

So, she dreams of him. That is not so different from the last twenty years of her life. So, she knows his smell, his taste, his touch, the sound of him in the height of pleasure. So, she's felt his love, his strong hands wrapped around her waist, soft kisses to her brow. So, she loves him so much that she has been raw and aching and desolate since he'd gone.

So what?

It amounted to nothing in the truth of their situation.

She thinks again how they were like two old chess pieces locked in their places. A stalemate. Neither could budge without losing the life they'd moved so carefully to craft.

It wasn't their fault they'd ended up here. They'd never meant to tangle with each other so closely. Never meant to get caught in the others snare.

He did not wish to be in love with her, that much was sure, couldn't have planned for that in his position, and she'd never meant to fall for him.

He loved the house; she loved her freedom.

They both loved their families.

The only way to please them both had been to surrender the game, end it in a draw, and so she had. She had buried her heart and that was an end to it. She would live the rest of her days in quiet widowhood and would never reveal that the man she had lost was not her husband.

Anything beyond that was irrelevant to her life moving forward.

She had been reminding herself of just that, daily, with her cool baths and puritanical dress.

It, the whole blasted mess, was over and she wouldn't let Glenna ruin that, wouldn't let her tear open her already bleeding heart any further. No matter what they both knew she knew.

Enough is enough.

"I want you to tell me the truth," Glenna says.

"I have told you the truth. He came here, we had a chat, he left."

Elsie maintains an air of nonchalance that Glenna echoes.

"What did you chat about?"

"This and that. Nothing of consequence."

"What did you give him to drink?"

Elsie guffaws, but answers anyway.

"Water."

"From the tap?"

Elsie feels her temper beginning to flare, and it has been so long since she's felt anything beyond a deep, hopeless resignation, it catches her off guard, throws her.

"No, I conjured it.  _Yes,_ Glenna, from the tap."

Glenna nods, presses on.

"It was a warm night."

"It was," Elsie agrees.

"He must have been hot."

Elsie wrinkles her brow, can feel Glenna scratching, but not at what. She considers, answers cautiously.

"I expect. No more than the rest of us."

"Still, men have it a bit difficult, don't they? Especially him with that fancy suit."

"Yes, I suppose ."

Elsie thinks of him in her doorway, taking up most of it. How she'd admired the cut of his suit on his frame at the dance, how she'd offered to take his jacket, felt the fine quality of it beneath her fingers, hung it carefully.

"All those layers."

She thinks of his shirt sleeves rolled up, the top button of his shirt undone, then another.

"Mm."

"And the hat. He was wearing a hat, wasn't he?"

Elsie smiles absently at that, remembers his hat in his hands like a scolded child there in her sitting room.

"His bowler."

"Right, stifling! And then, of course, they've their undershirts."

Elsie is still wearing a ghost of a smile, lost. Her brow wrinkles just a bit at the mention of a vest, typical men's dress she supposed, but…

"He wasn't wearing one."

"Ha!"

Elsie realizes a moment after it's out what she's said, what she has just unwittingly admitted to her sister.

She vows to check the water in this kitchen, for there must be something in it that loosens the tongue.

And clothes.

She is saved from having to answer by the kettle whistling and startling them both.

Elsie turns and quickly removes it from the heat, cools the stove, keeps her back turned until she can figure out what to say.

She knows one thing: she won't be having any of that tea.

"Oh, Elsie, come now. It's not as bad as all that. In fact, I hope it wasn't bad at all," Glenna says, and Elsie can't help but gasp, turn around again.

"I— Glenna, I can't believe you would condone—how could you not understand the shame, the dishonor... if mother knew…"

"If our  _dead_  mother knew we'd have more to worry about than whether or not you've slept with the man you love."

Elsie's jaw sets.

"I don't love him," she grinds out.

"Oh? Well, then that  _is_  a bit shameful. Am I to take you straight back to the church then? Force you to repent?"

To her horror, Elsie feels tears welling in her eyes, her lip quivering. She pulls it between her teeth and looks at Glenna with helpless eyes, because  _yes_ , that's exactly what she should do.

Elsie knows she should throw herself at the altar again and again for the shame she can't wash away, the impurity she can't seem to purge from her thoughts.

"Oh, Els. Tell me."

Glenna puts her arms around her, and the sadness that has been lying pathetically at the bottom of the empty well rises back up with a vengeance, begins to run over the sides.

"Mam was right," she whispers, hot tears beginning to streak her cheeks.

She lets them.

"I doubt it, but I'll play. About what?"

"Everything. All the horrid things she'd say. They're true. I'm awful. I'm stupid, and selfish, and cold, and detestable. I'm a wicked slut. I've shamed myself, and you, and poor Joe's memory. I'm the vile lass she said I was."

Glenna stands there stock still for a moment, her mouth agape.

"Oh, Elspeth. Elsie. How long have you been holding on to all that?"

Elsie doesn't answer, can't without sobbing, which she's promised not to do, shakes her head. Can't meet Glenna's eyes even as she grabs hold of her upper arms, tries to duck into the line of Elsie's gaze.

"Elsie, you listen to me. Mam wasn't right, she— she wasn't  _right_ in the head, Els. She said awful things to the lot of us. She told me once that I was from Satan himself. Do you believe that?"

Under different circumstances, Elsie might have told her she'd have to think on it, make some sly remark and flounce off as she always did. Normally, she couldn't abide such tension, such serious talk without the fire of anger or whiskey in her belly, but she is so tired, so, so tired of fighting, trying to be anything other than what she is.

She's tired of hiding.

She shakes her head.

"D'y'see, then? She was a sick, mean, old  _bitch_ , Elsie and she was 'til the day she died. I know you weren't here to see it, and I'm glad of that small mercy for you, but even from her deathbed, she was spewing venom. I don't know what it was, but you must believe me when I say she wasn't right."

Elsie doesn't know what to say to that. She isn't a stupid woman. She can rationalize what Glenna is saying. She understands that she was a child, that they all were, that their parents were cruel and they didn't deserve such treatment as they got. But there is still a little spot in her, grown larger in the last few months, fed with guilt and shame that is dark and bloody and malicious that whispers perhaps it isn't so. Perhaps she has been wrong and her mother right.

Perhaps this has been brewing all along because it's who she is. Perhaps she was made to cause such heartbreak, to leave shattered splinters in her wake.

Perhaps.

When she is silent, Glenna continues.

"Elsie. It will never be quite right. I— I thought perhaps you had been able to forget, that you'd coped somehow and made a new life for yourself and moved on, but that was foolish of me. I know that I myself have…struggled. And you know how it pains me to admit that, but I have and there's no use pretending otherwise. I can only tell you that once you look at the wound, once to press the infection and clean it out it will hurt less. It will not change the scar, but it will not keep you immobile as it has. And I know it hurts, puss, but the hurt is good. It means you are cleaning it out."

Glenna pauses to look at Elsie, and the hope in her eyes causes a few more tears to spill over.

"Shall we clean it together?" Glenna says, and after a long moment, in which Elsie weighs the price against what she's already lost, she nods.

* * *

Hours later, after tears and talking until their throats are raw, Elsie is sitting slumped with her head in her hands.

"Does it ever fade?"

"Does what ever fade, love?" Glenna asks.

"The scar. Does it fade or...?"

Glenna mulls this over, her lips twisted to one side in thought.

"I'm afraid it doesn't. Not really. I unloaded this all on Bess and Arthur twenty years ago and I still feel twinges now and then. Still notice a reaction or two that just a bit  _different -_ too much _._ "

Elsie nods dumbly, unsure she can stand that answer, but too tired to press it further.

"But it's not so bad, really. I have been able...that is, I love Arthur…and he loves me."

Glenna says it and it shoots right to Elsie's middle, makes her let out a huff of air.

"He could love you, too, if you'd let him."

"Arthur?" Elsie says with a laugh, she is being difficult, deliberately obtuse and it's unkind after all that Glenna has done for her in the last hours. She is not better, but she has been heard and understood and it has relieved some of the pressure, the terrible pain. Glenna has counseled her from tea time into the dead of night and she is still here, as she's always been.

"Mr. Carson," Glenna says.

Steady. Dependable. Easy.

"It isn't that simple."

"You've said that before and I'll tell you again, I'm sure it isn't. Nothing is simple in this life, at least, nothing worth having."

Elsie heaves a sigh in response, nods. She feels raw. Raw and exhausted.

"Can we go to bed?"

Glenna nods.

Together, they walk upstairs, strip to their shifts like when they were girls, and when they are in bed side by side, Glenna on Elsie's side and she on Charles', they watch the darkness of the night, and under the covers, Glenna holds her hand.

* * *

Morning dawns upon the Hughes girls early, grey light making their hair look almost black, long eyelashes fluttering against high cheeks.

Elsie wakes first.

Glenna is flung about wild beside her, one leg poking out of the covers and over the side of the bed, one arm above her head. Elsie is on her back, still and stifling beneath all her covers.

She mirrors her sister and kicks one leg out.

The movement stirs Glenna who breathes a deep sigh, stretches, before coming to rest on her back at Elsie's side.

"Morning." She says, voice thick with sleep.

"Good morning," Elsie replies.

Glenna rubs her hands over her face, her shift has fallen over one shoulder and she hauls it up, stares at the ceiling.

"You know what's next, don't you?"

Elsie breathes a sigh, moves her gaze from the ceiling to the empty chair by her doorway, nods. She has been thinking about it since last night, has started the unpleasant task of swallowing her rather substantial pride, of learning that more of the same will not do. If she wants  _something_ , she shall have to face her fears to get it.

It isn't foreign to her - fear or the facing of it, but the idea of making herself vulnerable to do so is not appealing.

It is rather extremely  _unappealing._

Glenna studies her profile for a moment, looks up again.

"So, you'll go to him then?"

Elsie doesn't pretend to be shocked, doesn't pretend that this isn't where she's been heading since the moment she let him go, merely nods. Even if he rejects her, even if he laughs in her face or spits at her she must at least  _try._

"Yes. I think I have to."

Glenna nods her agreement, still staring up at the ceiling same as Elsie. Then, after a beat, brings her hands down in a slap against the covers.

"Right then. I'll help you pack."


	14. Chapter 14

She must be insane. She must. As insane as her mother and make no mistake.

She has caught the next train to Yorkshire, has left the house and its running for Glenna to sort, is plowing forward into something she herself isn't sure she understands.

She loves him, of course. Of course she does.

But it still does not matter.

It doesn't change her sisters or the farm or the new material of her lighter, shorter skirts. It doesn't change how very English he is, how dedicated, how he's never wished he'd gone another way.

But, her mind argues with itself, then again, he has retired.

Retired.

The thought rolls around in her mind like a marble.

Why?

Why would he do such a thing?

But she knows. She knows because she's already been told. She'd listened so very intently to every word of Beryl's letter and of course, she'd heard he was leaving for someone.

She bites her lip, hard.

She will not fight for him, cannot imagine the indignity of doing so. After all, whoever he's found is bound to be immaculate, well-suited to him and his temperament in a way she's never been.

She ignores the trembling of her shattered heart, tamps down errant jealousy, further swallows her pride.

She will not be his, but she will make this right. Will make them friends again. Anything but this dreadful silence. This quiet ache that is eating her alive.

She must at least have letters, must convince him to write to her. To tell her of inane things like which flowers are blooming and the never-ending dramas of the abbey, of which he will no doubt still be kept abreast.

She must have what little of him she can. She knows that now. Hates to admit it, but knows it's true.

It will hurt. It will be unbearable — to have not even a half, nothing more than a shadow, a shade of what they could be, what she's denied them, what she's squandered.

It will make her want to scream and tear her hair.

But it will be alright because she will still have some small part of him, and them, and what could have been.

She is ashamed of her want, her adoration, her love, but there is nothing for it.

She will smile, will support him, will wish the new Mrs. Carson-to-be well and will not scratch her eyes out, will not hiss or snarl.

She will support him as a friend should.

After all, men and women could be friends, could overcome awkwardness. So they'd given into a baser urge, one that she still can't quite forgive herself for indulging in, but she can overlook it, can stiffen her lip and jut her chin, and bury it deep to make it right between them.

She can live out the rest of her years hewn as she is, torn apart from the inside out, drowning in her own wickedness, if only she can see him sometimes.

There is unbearable pain either way, and she has already sullied herself, so what difference does it make if she goes to hell for quietly pledging her loyalty to a man with whom she'd sinned, sent away, pined for all the same?

Another woman's husband.

Her head hurts with her swimming thoughts, cannot fathom what it is she's got herself into.

She has packed a bag, has not written, is on her way to very rudely drop in on her old friends who are already cross with her for not dropping in in the first place.

She bites her lip, shakes her head.

 _What a mess_.

Everything is a desperate mess and she has no plan. No clear thoughts in her head. No way to fix it. She has suffered and solved for the last fifty years of her life, but now she has nothing to offer, nothing beyond sorrow and a desperate hope her deepest regrets, her sincerest apologies will be enough for them. All of them.

She doesn't know how she will express them to Charles. Doesn't even know where he is.

She wrings her hands.

She thinks for a moment that perhaps he is already in a cozy cottage snuggled up to a nice woman, a proper woman who deserves his love and his name. She sees them twined together on a small settee, him reading, her knitting, the glint in his eye as his hand slides up her calf beneath her skirt and further, higher until—

Elsie coughs, clears her throat so loudly the woman across from her looks up crossly.

"Sorry," Elsie murmurs, clenches her eyes against the images she'd been conjuring, wills herself to think on something else, like Beryl and the house and where they will put her and what an inconvenience she will be coming like this, unannounced.

She doesn't even know who will be at the house now. What familiar faces will remain. She knows Beryl, Anna, and Daisy will be there because of the letter, but what of her other girls? Of Martha and Lucy and Nell?

She knows housemaids are difficult to keep on these days.

And then there is the matter of if she will be welcomed. She should have written. Should not have listened to Glenna. Should have written and waited for her offer to be accepted or declined via post from Beryl or Anna like a civilized person.

But, she supposes, she has not been very civilized as of late.

That very fact has her terrified to doze on the train, terrified her dreams will turn the direction they've tended to over the past two months.

She's had dreams like those before, of course, is not a stranger to her own body or its needs, it is only that lately it's all taken on a much more vivid edge, much more shameful in that she's actually gone and done it, has gone beyond those rare hazy evenings or early mornings half asleep in the dim light with her fingers pressed between her legs, rocking to relieve some of the deep pulsing ache, worse now that she's engaged with a man out of wedlock, has given the one thing sacred to all women without thought, served herself up to him on the smooth wood of her kitchen table.

She has given her desire a face and a name. Something she'd always been so careful not to do when she lost herself alone in her rooms. She has made it a tangible sin in the form of Charles Carson and his stern brow, his deep eyes, his soft lips.

She has made it impossible to ignore, to rationalize, to call a light sin, a gentle one of a lonely woman bound to a lonely life.

No, there had been very little light or gentle about the way they'd come apart together that night.

She breathes a deep sigh. In - out.

It's so much worse in that sometimes now she wakes up with his name on her lips, crying out in pleasure or anguish depending on which way her dream has swayed, which way it's swept her.

Sometimes it is her on him, her mouth around him as she'd been so desperate for that night, or her thighs straddled over his hips, pressed down into her mattress, or her back against the cold walls of the abbey's wine cellar.

Other times, it is him leaving her. It is the tea shop and knit brows and bitten lips. It is shielded gazes, broken touches, things unsaid. At these times it is held-back tears and fierce cries of protest.

Either way, she thinks she barely actually sleeps anymore and the gentle rocking of the train combined with her rare stillness is beginning to lull her.

His visage swims before her face. His soft grey eyes and unruly brows, the way his left one always has a few stray hairs that stick nearly straight up. She smiles even as her heart clenches.

She has no idea if that's the Charles she will be met with, or if it will be the other, the cold eyes and set jaw, the clenched fists, and puffed chest, tossing her out on her ear like so many errant footmen and hall boys.

She would deserve the latter of course, but even if that's all she gets from him, if that's all he has left for her now, she will take it because she must at least try to set them straight, must at least apologize for being a bloody great fool.

It will be hard, incredibly difficult. It will hurt. But it will be nothing, nothing compared to the pain she has felt these last months knowing she has hurt him, them, has dashed their chances.

He deserves better than her, and will no doubt have it — probably does already by the sound of it. It is the least she can do to fix this one wound. She can patch it up for him so that his start with someone new can be pain-free, untainted.

She can fabricate a friendship and be satisfied.

She can.

* * *

Charles misses being Carson.

Truthfully, he misses anything that took his mind off of Elsie Hughes and her stubborn heart.

He had imagined leaving Downton would help, that distancing himself from the place they'd spent so many years, the bricks that held the vapors of their dreams and talks and arguments, the other hold on his heart that had in many ways ruined his chances with her – prevented him from courting her, wooing her properly, hoping that she might fall in love with him to the degree he thinks he has probably always been with her, would somehow cure his anxious mind. But now he finds he has no clue how to fill his days any longer. His mind is more agitated than ever. He thinks of nothing but her and the hurt in his heart and how everything, his whole sodding existence, has been for naught.

He is mortified and angry that without her he feels he has nothing.

It isn't right. It isn't right at all for a grown man, a man who has made something of himself, has served at a household of the highest esteem, to be so utterly bereft without a woman who made very clear she never wanted to see him again, had only wanted one thing.

He understands the nature of life, Charles does, has expounded on it many a time. He understands that times change and people must, to some degree or another, muddle through. He knows better than most that people are like seasons, has neatly demarcated his life in tidy sections by those he has gained and those he's left behind and how each new addition or subtraction has changed the person he is, despite his best efforts.

He wants so badly for things to stay still, to let him get his footing.

But she, most of all, has pulled the rug from beneath him again and he feels a great blundering idiot for allowing it to be so, for even now scowling at the roses that grow so annoyingly beneath his bedroom window and fill the air with a scent that makes him punch the mattress, clutch his pillow. Hates all the more that he can't bring himself to tear the damn things from the earth and banish them to the brush pile as they deserve for taunting him so.

He still dreams of her. He can't control his mind in the night, no matter how staid his days have become.

Mornings consist of the washbasin (cool, usually, freezing, if necessary), a simple breakfast (whatever he can scratch together), ironing and reading the papers, a walk to the village, a treat at the bakers, perhaps a spot of tea at the Grantham Arms, a visit to the post office (where he always hopes there will be a trace of heather, a white flag tucked neatly into delicate paper), and then home again to potter in the garden until the sun sets.

Throughout the day she may plague him. May whisper little comments in his ear about something particularly silly he's seen about the village or a snide comment about his own disapproving glares, but mostly, he can tune her out.

No, it's nights that are the problem.

At night, he cannot forget the melody of her footsteps on the stairs in time with his own, the memory of her tender eyes as she looked up at him from the floor where she gently undressed him, the giggle at his wiggling toes.

He'd been so foolishly blind, so terribly in love, and at night he cannot keep the song and dance of them from playing over and over again in his mind.

He cannot believe that a woman who has always been so near, so much a part of his life that he could not separate her presence from his own, could not extract her heartbeat from his even when it is weak and broken, is now nothing more than a memory to him.

He doesn't know what he expected to happen, what his plan would have been had she not left him weeping in the cold night air so many months ago, but he tells himself he would have ended up here regardless – alone and angry because thoughts of the alternative are untenable.

Thoughts of her wearing his ring, kissing his brow, promising to love and cherish only him for the rest of her days.

Intolerable.

Thoughts of her rising above him, hair wild and sticking to face and neck and naked breasts, of them, calling out together as loud as they pleased with no shame in the eyes of each other or God.

Unbearable.

Still, at night, she comes to him, drifts through his open windows, wraps him up in her scent, reminds him that no matter how much time goes by, he has made his vows already, will love and cherish only her for the rest of his days.

Even if that's what brings an end to them.

* * *

Elsie has made her way from the train station slowly, is dragging her feet through the village, rehearsing what she shall possibly say to explain herself when she turns up at the house. Just as she has nearly convinced herself that she will be able to talk Beryl down from the ledge, she sees him.

Or them, rather.

It knocks the breath out of her, brings tears to her eyes, makes her want the earth to swallow her up where she stands.

He is leaving the bakery, sharing a jovial laugh with the woman who runs it — Elsie can't remember her name, but thinks wildly she wishes she did, wishes she had a name to put with this woman, suddenly wants to remember everything about her that seemed so inconsequential before when she'd occasionally stop in for a bun after church.

She is gaping, standing there wide-eyed and dumbstruck on the pavement when it occurs to her that she doesn't want to — can't— be seen. She wouldn't be able to contain herself if he saw her now, would happily abandon her clear resolutions and throw herself at him in order to right them, have him by her side, convince him that no one could be as earth-shattering together as the two of them, no one could love him as she did.

With all her strength she manages to take a few stumbling steps backward, to slide herself stealthily between buildings where she can still watch without the fear of being seen.

And she does.

She watches as the woman bats her cow eyes, makes several transparent little motions around her mouth and eyes to draw his clearly already rapt attention, titters inanely and loudly at something he's said.

She watches as his brows shoot up, surprised, and her breath catches, waiting for his response, waiting and hoping with all she has that he will rebuff her, will do something mad like tell her of Elsie, profess his undying love right there in her face, or better yet, somehow sense that Elsie herself is nearby and be suddenly overcome.

She is being absurd, irrational, not making any sense at all.

And then he is chuckling himself, his shoulders shaking lightly and the woman, this shameless flirt, this terrible hussy, reaches out her hand and touches his arm, grips him there and tucks her hand in the space between his forearm and his solid body, her space, and Elsie has to force her gloved hand over her mouth to keep from making the wounded noise that had risen up in her chest, must press herself against the wall to keep from running at them and making some sort of scene.

She cannot believe any of this, her or him or them.

She has never felt so foolish in all her life, has never felt so low or naïve or utterly unbalanced.

For she has made it all up. Has imagined his affections. Has injected fantasy into what she always knew to be true: men only wanted one thing from a woman. And he'd said what he had to in order to get it from her.

She pushes aside the traitorous thought that she was the one who had begun kissing him, throwing herself at him, no better than a common whore. No right, really, to be judging this shopkeeper, this baker's widow with her golden hair and pretty profile. For she herself is just as bad. Worse. Knows all about the charms of one Charles Carson.

The icy knife of her anger turns to him.

She may have offered, have started the whole sodding thing, but he had taken, had taken what she offered and had clearly thought nothing of it. He was not a gentleman, did not rebuff her, insist on propriety, was all too eager. She sees now that he had only been angry with her in the teashop because he knew her sending him away meant he would not be getting any more of the same from her, but now there was this woman and him and them and her wretched claw around his forearm and his tipping hat and the way her fingers were sliding down the fabric of his sleeve, the way she is watching him walk away with a stupid, goofy smile and Elsie knows it won't be long until he's getting what he wants from this sorry woman.

She clenches her eyes shut. Tries desperately to clear her mind, to slow the thoughts that are marching through like soldiers into battle, ordered chaos, clamoring against her already exhausted mind, overwhelming her further, sending her skittering back down the edge of that well.

She scorns the gentle thoughts that vie for her attention reminding her he had considered, had apologized and that he'd never been a very good liar.

Or perhaps he has been so good at lying that he'd fooled even her with her keen eye and barbed tongue.

 _Christ_.

She doesn't know what to think.

She should go back to Scotland. She should turn around and go back to the station and forget the whole bloody thing.

But then there's Glenna and her stern gaze and her insistence that Elsie not come back until this is sorted. The threat to make her life a misery of pies and pigs and constant nagging.

She could take it.

She could turn right around and put Glenna in her place and live the drudgery of the farm and forget this cursed place ever existed.

She could, but she won't.

She swallows back her tears, gulps a deep breath of air and squares her shoulders.

No, she won't go back to all that. The regrets and the wishing and the watching over helplessly of a festering wound.

She will do this for herself if nothing else. Will right herself. Will visit her friends and make amends with this man who she had once counted as one of them. The closest of all.

She will…

She will forgive him for his sins and hope he forgives her and will spend the rest of her life repenting for her blind foolishness, will bend her knee and fold her hands and say a million prayers to cleanse herself of the entire sordid affair.

She will be the bigger woman. She will put this mess behind her.

She will smile at him and congratulate him on his newest prospect and she will leave here feeling closer to whole again, closer to the woman she was before them, before him, before Joe and the whole circus unfolded.

She will perhaps not miss his letters so much. Will not ask him to write.

She will bury her bleeding heart, lock it away, ignore its broken beating, guard it further, better, so that it may never be so recklessly shattered again. She will not feel this. She will not let this break her.

Resolute in this, Elsie peers around the corner, makes sure he is nowhere in sight, steps out into the sunlight and tries to let its rays warm her through.

It does nothing for the chill in her heart.

She takes the familiar path from the village to the servant's entrance, knocks once, twice, three times before someone answers— a tall woman with bright red hair, pulled back in the severest bun Elsie has seen since old Mrs. White, the housekeeper in the first house Elsie'd ever worked.

"Yes?" The woman says, her eyes narrowed.

"I—Beryl?"

Elsie wrinkles her brow at her own fumbling.

"Who?" the woman says, her faint brow cocked, her mouth twisted in a scowl.

"I'm sorry, I meant, I am here to call upon Mrs. Patmore. Is she in?"

The woman eyes her up and down once more, from the tips of her toes to the top of her hat and Elsie feels herself falling back into Mrs. Hughes, growing impatient with the woman and her impertinence, has already had quite enough for one day and is about to give her a thorough tongue-lashing concerning manners and propriety, is in fact itching for someone to release her ire on, when she is cut off, rudely interrupted by another voice.

"Come away from there, Alice, whatever do you mean standing by the open door letting all the heat in?"

The severe woman, Alice, moves to explain herself when she too is cut off by a sharp jingle, a shrill squeal, and a person barreling past her to lunge into Elsie's unprepared arms.

Elsie can feel the wind being squeezed from her lungs, and it takes her the few seconds of stumbling backward and catching herself to realize that it is Anna Bates she has in her arms.

She hugs her back as fiercely.

"Oh, forgive me, Mrs. Hughes!" She says when she pulls back from Elsie's neck. I'm so sorry, it's only, I can't believe it's you!"

She pauses again to pull Elsie into another hug, to run her small hands down Elsie's arms.

"I can't believe you've finally come. We've all missed you desperately, you know."

Elsie can't help but smile back at the spritely features she had grown to love as they are lit up with joy. Anna is positively beaming.

"I have missed you all, too. So much," Elsie says, reaching out to grasp Anna's hand in hers.

"Come in! Come in," she says, ushering Elsie toward the door, turning her gaze briefly to Alice. "Alice, prepare one of the attic rooms won't you?"

"Oh, there's really no need. I can stay at the Arms…" Elsie begins to protest.

"Nonsense! Alice has been coming along well as head housemaid, and I'm sure she won't mind. You'll stay here with us, where you belong." Anna says, looping her arm through Elsie's.

"You won't mind, will you, Alice?" Anna says, her voice still cheery, but masking an edge with which Elsie is all too familiar.

"Of course not, Mrs. Bates," Alice says, in a way that reminds Elsie unpleasantly of Miss O'Brien, before she marches up the stairs.

Anna lets out a sigh as they watch her go and gives Elsie a shake of her head.

"She's competent enough, but her attitude is severely lacking. She won't last another month, I'm sure. You know how it is here. We are more family than anything else. We look out for each other. She's only out for herself."

Elsie gives her a wan smile in response, all of this somehow already so foreign to her. It has only been a year and some months, but she has already forgotten the headaches of running a staff, finds she doesn't have much to say.

"I really am so glad you are here, Mrs. Hughes. It really does feel like it's put things back in alignment."

Elsie smiles kindly, her mind quite preoccupied. She wishes Anna would not talk such nonsense. She tries to answer as neutrally as possible.

"I am glad to be here, Anna. To see you, all of you."

Anna gives her another bright smile, begins leading her inside.

"Where you belong," she says again and steps ahead, leading the way, missing Elsie's slight scowl as she continues to mull over the absurd notion of her belonging anywhere, with anyone.

She'd certainly never felt she belonged at Downton. Comfortable, sure. Capable, absolutely. She'd felt the top of her game, but as she'd told Charles once before, in one of their rare, raw moments, this house was not her home, their employers not her family.

It was a lonely existence, but an honest one.

"Is that really all you've brought?"

She's stirred from her thoughts by Anna's gesture toward her single carpetbag as she shoos Elsie into a very familiar sitting room.

She finds she can only gasp in response.

Anna smiles calmly.

"I've kept it much the same. It- it brought me confidence. And comfort."

Elsie can't respond, her throat as knotted as it is and merely grasps Anna's hand again.

"Does Mrs. Patmore know you're here?"

Elsie grimaces, shakes her head and Anna purses her lips, gives her a look that says she doesn't envy Elsie's position.

"Right. We are in trouble, aren't we?"

* * *

"I cannot believe you told Anna first!"

"I didn't tell Anna anything, I just showed up here and she was there!"

"I don't believe you."

"Beryl. Why would I lie?"

"You don't lie. You're cleverer than that. You omit."

Elsie pauses in their light, teasing argument and realizes it's teetering closer to something with a sharper edge, shifting just that bit closer to the truth, below the belt.

"I'm sorry?" she says, because she doesn't know what else to say, doesn't want to think too seriously, dig too deep into her own psyche just now. Now or ever.

"You heard me. You're the master of keepin' it all shut up in there," Beryl says, gesturing toward Elsie's entire being.

Elsie does not want to fight.

"Perhaps you are right."

"I am."

"Alright, then."

"How long are you here for, then?"

Elsie sips her tea, shrugs her shoulders.

"I didn't really plan. I got your letter and…"

"Ah, I see. You're here for him, then."

The statement hits Elsie like a punch to her stomach, because yes, of course she is, but she is also here for Beryl, for Anna and Daisy, for herself if she's honest. She feels the desperate need to come back to herself and they are part of that, of course they are.

In the spirit of not-saying, Elsie tries to reply with tact.

"Beryl, I am here. I want to see you. I've missed you terribly. Is that not enough?"

Beryl seems to consider this, purses her lips in an exaggerated manner, taps her chin.

"I suppose it is. But I also suppose you will be wanting to see him?"

Elsie swallows hard, remembers the warmth of his smile bestowed upon the baker's widow, the way she'd tucked her hand so neatly into his arm.

"If I see him, so be it." She says, nonchalant, casual, throws in a shrug of one of her shoulders, does not meet Beryl's eye.

"Right."

Beryl draws out the word, just slightly, and Elsie ignores that too. Sips her tea. Nibbles her biscuit.

There is a beat of silence before Beryl pats the table with some finality.

"Come on then. Finish that and we'll go see Daisy, catch you up on the goings-on."

"You know," Elsie says with a slight smile, "you're getting quite bossy in your dotage"

Beryl laughs loudly at this.

"Yes, well without the positively  _elderly_  Queen of Scots around to keep me in line, I've run amok."

For the first time in a long time, Elsie feels her smile reach her eyes.

Maybe this will be enough. She and Beryl and Daisy and Anna.

Maybe she can accompany them to church and pay him a kind word and that will be that.

Maybe everything really will work out in the end.

She smiles, finishes off her tea, takes her things to the sink.

Maybe.

Does a silly little curtsy for her friend.

"Lead the way then, Lady Patmore."


	15. Chapter 15

"I won't do it."

"You will. I need you to and I've asked very nicely."

"What about Daisy?"

"You know she's only here some of the time now. She's at the farm."

"What about one of the footmen, or a hall boy?"

"You try prying them from Mr. Barrow's fingers. He's worse than Mr. Carson some days, I tell you."

"But there must be someone, or can't you wait a day?"

Beryl sighs, brushes back a few errant curls with her forearm before diving her hands back into the dough before her.

"No, I can't. We've got yet another great bloody dinner tomorrow and I need all my girls to help me prepare. I'd switch one of you out, but we all know you're helpless with more than a kettle."

She continues over the beginning of Elsie's protests, what's going to be her insistence that she's back in practice now, that she can bake a fine pie and manage an adequate stew.

"Tomorrow will be the same and it must be delivered. He will be expecting it. And if truly nothing transpired between the two of you, if there is no bad blood, as you  _insist_ , then I don't understand what the fuss is about. He's your friend, I'm your friend, we need a favor."

Elsie sighs, looks out the window, back at Beryl where she now leans over a sauce that is bubbling steadily on the stove. Watches her add a pinch of something to it and then move back to her dough.

"Are you going to gawk all day or are you going?"

Elsie straightens her shoulders, locks her knees.

Her nose twitches.

"No, I won't be going and that is an end to the matter."

* * *

An hour later she is standing in the small attic room she'd been afforded, checking and rechecking her hat, fussing with her collar, her sleeves, giving little glances to the basket on the dresser as she prepares to deliver it.

"This is lunacy," she whispers to herself, "he won't give a fig what you look like, you're just delivering a basket. You will deliver it and you will be kind and then you will leave."

Still, she looks at her reflection again, remembers Glenna's parting advice.

"Just shine, puss. That's all you must do."

Elsie hadn't given her words much credit, still doesn't, but she cocks her head and watches as her reflection does the same.

She doesn't sparkle, doesn't shine.

Shakes her head.

Rubbish.

She will deliver the basket. She will be kind. And then she will leave.

She's only been at Downton a few days, has spent her time catching up with the girls and Mr. Barrow and even her Ladyship, once, when she'd learned of her visit from Anna.

But the damned thing is, she is starting to believe her own lies, starting to think perhaps it  _wouldn't_ matter if she didn't reconcile with Charles.

It still hurts to think of him, but she has felt more herself the last few days than she has in almost two years. She has felt like her own woman again.

Even with nothing tasked to her, really, even feeling dreadfully underfoot, there has been something comforting to her about the familiarity of the grounds, the hushed laughter of her friends in the yellow light of Anna's sitting room.

Her heart hurts without Charles. It aches. It would tear at her very being to see him with another, but she would not die of it.

She would not cease to exist without him.

Elsie mulls that over for a moment, tentatively sets her mind on what remains of her life, at this late stage, and what it would mean to truly be without him as she hasn't been before.

They have had distance, have had geography and propriety and chasms of unsaid words and misunderstandings between them, but they have never been apart. Not from where she is standing. He has always been in her heart, had taken up residence there quite without permission and made it his home. Made her his without more than a quirk of his brow, an exasperated sigh, the ghost of a twitching smile, the brush of his fingertips over an exchanged glass of wine.

She wrinkles her brow, makes a soft sound in her throat.

But she doesn't need those things. Not as she needs bread and water and air. She doesn't.

She can cast him out, can bid him pack his bags and leave that space he's occupied so softly, so secretly, where she has so carefully tended to him for countless years.

She will not die.

She will fill herself with silly giggles, with pie baking and farm tending and idle gossip, with letters and visits to her family here, her almost-home she hadn't realized she'd made amidst the endless days of labor, now so easily laced with joy and calm and laughter.

She can fill herself with that and it will not be the same, but it perhaps will not drown her in the darkness of the last months, will not let emptiness, so dark and heavy in its lacking, consume her.

She looks at her reflection.

She does not shine, but she is alive, is not so consumed by the depths that have plagued her.

She takes a breath, thinks of how she'll tear him from her heart, how she will uproot him and this distorted, twisted love that grew between them like a creeping vine between the cracks in brick and mortar.

She does not need him. Sod his letters, his barking laugh, the kindness that sometimes shines so softly in his eyes.

She is fine.

There is only this. This final task, so solemn for what it is, really.

Beryl and her bullheaded insistence that Mr. Carson must have his blasted basket. The one she has been sending weekly since his retirement,  _until he gets used to his new life_ , she'd said.

Elsie breathes in deeply again, out, had chosen and is still choosing not to examine the frisson of unwarranted emotion that had shot through her when she'd heard it. Refuses to name it jealousy. Dismisses herself as preposterous and recovering from an emotional journey from the efforts of  _stitching it up._

She can do this.

She doesn't care a bit about Charles or his basket or who prepared it or how it got to him or with whom he shares it.

It was none of her concern until Beryl made it so.

Now she must face this, nervous like a silly housemaid, dreading seeing him and possibly the baker's widow —  _Mrs. Emily Blythe_  it turned out her name was, when she'd casually, so casually and stealthily wheedled it out of Beryl, and she does not care, does not care at all — walking out, holding hands, worse.

She swallows hard. Looks herself in the eye.

"It doesn't matter. You are an idiot."

"Well, 'suppose it is a bit odd to talk to yourself, but idiot seems rather harsh."

Elsie turns to look at Beryl, startled.

Beryl merely raises a brow.

"Are you ready yet? You've been up here an age. I'll have to pack a new one by the time you're on your way."

Elsie rolls her eyes, turns to grab her small handbag and the basket, makes a little impatient motion toward Beryl.

"I'm ready. I'll just take it and I'll be off. No supervision needed, thank you."

* * *

"Good Afternoon, Mr. Carson. Lovely weather. Beryl asked me to deliver this basket. Yes, I'm visiting, but only for a short while. I must be off. Enjoy!"

Elsie contorts her face into a bright smile that passes for little more than a grimace, then groans, tries again.

"Hello, Mr. Carson. Remember that night not so long ago when we —" she can't say it, can't think it, not even now that she's well and truly irked, can't avoid the confusing rush of shame and something softer, hotter that washes over her, when the images of exactly what they'd done flash in her mind.

She clears her throat, pats the collar of her blouse. Scolds herself again for being daft.

"Remember when you called on me and I sent you away the very next day? Me too. Here's your basket."

She causes herself to chuckle briefly at her own flippancy, but it is a hollow sound, its edges frayed with the anxiety that's been sitting in her stomach since the early morning.

She takes a deep, cleansing breath. Refuses to let the sadness bubble up. Double checks the lock on her insubordinate heart is bolted firmly in place.

Goes again.

"Mr. Carson, hello. I'm so sorry to barge in on you like this, but Mrs. Patmore insisted and you know how persuasive she can be. I'm sorry to have troubled you. Here it is."

She practices holding the basket out in front of her for him to take. Imagines his hand wrapping around the handle right next to hers, their pinkies brushing, his sun-kissed skin.

She groans again in frustration.

There is definitely something wrong with her. She lost her marbles somewhere along the way and at this rate, she'll never gather them again.

"Remember yourself, be normal," she coaches herself.

Then she rolls her eyes because between them there is no such thing as normal. Especially now. How could there be?

They had seen, experienced each other intimately.

And she may have not been his first, was probably one of many, but he was the only man she'd ever lain with in that way, given herself to totally. The only man she's ever lost herself to in the height of passion and sin and how is she to forget that? How is she to wash it from her skin? How is she supposed to not think about it every moment?

She has taken baths, has scrubbed her skin raw to try to erase the memory of him pressed against it, scarring her heart with each kiss, each touch of his talented tongue, his strong hands. How is she supposed to forget that he has ruined her for any others, has utterly claimed her, even before he touched her, before he had her on her dead husband's table? How is she to banish him, to tear him out with his seeking fingers like clever vines still digging into her flesh so clearly in her mind? How is she expected to combat the frustrating mixture of arousal and shame and anger and sadness that she's feeling all the damn time and all the more acutely now that she has to see him again?

See his inconveniently handsome face and his powerful body.

See him tower over her and get close to take the basket and have his eyes upon her.

See him bring the basket in and as he sets it on his table, see him leaning into precious  _Mrs. Emily Blythe_  with her full apple cheeks and gold-silver hair, her pink lips.

She clenches the basket until her knuckles are white.

 _Fuck_  this entire trip. To hell with the whole godforsaken mess.

He'll be lucky if she doesn't fling the basket at his head.

But that would be a scene, and if there's one thing she can't stand, contrary to recent evidence in her dramatic arrival at Downton's door, it's a scene.

So, she's resolved to simply leave it on his step with a knock and make a quick escape.

Because she just can't do it yet. Can't see him.

Not yet, perhaps not ever.

She isn't ready to play nice with him just now when she's remembering what it is to be something a little more than desolate, when there's a fire in her belly and she's spoiling for a good fight.

When she would love nothing more than to teach him a lesson about love and heartbreak and what it is to feel betrayed.

As if she could teach him more than she already has.

No, it will be better for them both if she disappears, makes her quick escape.

What she doesn't expect, when she's finally arrived, when she's walked directly through his gate, up his little walkway, has hemmed and hawed for a few minutes before shaking herself, poising her fist at the door, is him opening it as soon as she knocks, her knuckles still practically on the wood, her heart pounding in her chest, and finding herself looking directly into the imperious gaze of Charles Carson.

* * *

The garden needs tending.

It doesn't, really, but that's his excuse. He will go out there and he will poke and prod and prune and think again about tearing up the roses, will scratch his hands and arms on the thorns and think how that's fitting, how that just about serves him right.

He is rolling his sleeves, casting about his parlor looking for where he might've set his gloves when he sees a figure through the small window, moving past his gate, up the path toward his door.

It is from the corner of his eye, but he knows it must be someone from the village, some do-gooder or a neighbor or some other impertinent soul for whom he has no patience today.

He is feeling ill-tempered and antsy and the last thing he wants is a visitor.

He waits for a beat for the person's knock, but it does not come and he rolls his eyes heavenwards.

It pops into his mind that it is getting close to the time that Beryl would be sending a silly basket. As if he cannot provide his own sustenance. As if he has not planned carefully for this very existence: retired old bachelor, living out his days in sparse practicality.

He allowed himself the occasional sweet, to be sure, was not a stranger to the baker's shop, has been there just this morning purchasing a little box of sticky buns.

Not his choice, not what he would choose on a Sunday after church, but a familiar one, and his own tastes rarely dictate his choices these days.

That thought does nothing to assuage his sour mood.

It's some idiot hall boy or silly maid who has still not gotten over the imposing 'Mr. Carson,' who is still afraid to knock upon his door as if he is some sort of ghoul, as if he could turn them to dust where they stand.

He's heard it all before from Beryl, knows exactly the image he apparently projects. Doesn't much care.

Doesn't care what anyone thinks of him anymore or the gossip that runs around the town about why he's left service and the mysterious identity of  _for whom_  he's left.

He knows there's talk, has made a living of gathering errant secrets, pocketing carelessly discarded words, piecing together a picture. Has prided himself on his ability to vault it up, to use his abilities, his advantages, only for the positive, has only rarely gossiped and only with one person.

Which is why he is so very good at creating this barrier he's erected between himself and their idle chatter, their vapid talk.

It means nothing and he has other matters at hand, like what to do with the damn roses.

He is still staring blankly at the door, becoming more irritated by the second at the delay this person has caused by lurking there for so long, when finally there is a soft rap and he is there in an instant, is already ready to punish the person, to put them firmly in their place when the words die in his chest.

It takes him a moment.

A blink.

It can't be. This cannot be happening to him  _again_.

He almost wants to laugh, could almost release the searing pain building in his middle through a harsh cackle at what entertainment he must be for the gods, what a mockery he presents.

It is her. There is no point in denying it is her awful, beautiful face that peers up at him wide-eyed.

Why can she not just let him alone? Leave him be.

Wicked, cruel, wretched woman.

His eyes harden.

"What are you doing here, Mrs. Burns? What is it that you are playing at?"

It cuts him, slices him right through the middle to ask it and to use that cursed name, but the flinch of her cheek is enough of a reward, an acknowledgment for both of them that whatever was once between them is rotten now, is rancid and dying in the darkness of his heart.

"I-" She says, and just the sound of her stuttering start makes him want to— he isn't sure, he wants to do so many things, is so very angry, cannot believe the gall, the nerve.

He eyes the way she bites her full lower lip, pulls it under her neat white teeth, and he can see the barest hint of her pink tongue as she does it.

He flexes his hand, open, closed. Digs his nails into his palms, wishes for thorns.

"Well?" He booms, because he cannot stand here one more minute in silence.

"Beryl asked me to bring you your basket. I'm visiting, you see, for a short while, and she asked and I tried to refuse her, of course, Mr. Carson, but I didn't see any point in delving into the whole sorry mess and so I just went and did it. She asked me so I did it."

She says it all in one breath and then stares at him.

He looks down to where the basket is clenched in her fist, her white knuckles standing out against the dark handle, the smooth white of her wrist, the barest hint of freckles whose edges he can see as the light lace of her cuff dances along them.

She is wearing a thin white blouse, as warm as it is, and a pretty green skirt, and he hates it, her, all the more for the effect it has on him, for how beautiful he finds her.

"Bring it, then." He orders, since she hasn't released it, has made no motion to give the thing up to him.

He hears her gasp and realizes, rather stupidly, and rather late that it sounds for all the world as if he's invited her into his home, that he has allowed this siren, this witch, another step closer to him.

He cannot back out now. Does not want to appear stupid or fumbling or as if he has not meant what he said, so he steps back, makes a gesture with his hand for her to see herself through and watches only her shoes as she takes a faltering step forward, stumbles lightly over the threshold.

He does not touch her, bites his nails into his palm again to keep from steadying her. It goes against his nature, the polite propriety beaten into his bones, but he manages, just.

He owes her nothing.

He closes the door behind her with a soft click and when he turns, he finds her still staring at him, her eyes still wide, her mouth a thin frown.

His heart jolts.

He's trapped her, again. He's trapped her where she doesn't want to be and dammit it has not been his intention. He is not any more eager to share his space with her, to let her into the privacy of his home, to let her anywhere near something of his that could break.

They'll make this quick then.

Drawing a deep breath through his nose, he does his best.

"Kitchen," he says, gesturing toward the room to his right.

She follows him dutifully, and the scent of roses is lighter but somehow clearer now and he doubles his resolve to banish it completely.

When they are standing there, stock-still and stupid in the soft light of the kitchen, pointedly looking at anything other than each other, his eyes land on the table and his chest constricts, he feels as though he can't breathe, clenches his fist so hard he is sure he will draw blood.

He wonders wildly for a moment why he'd invited her here of all places, should've grabbed the damn thing from her hands and sent her away.

He closes his eyes, finally looks to where she is staring just over his right shoulder, hard at the wall behind him.

Right.

He must navigate them through this then, must put an end to both their misery.

He tries to calm himself, to remind himself his intentions are nothing untoward, that they are both capable of civility, both well trained in etiquette and propriety.

He can be polite. He can put on a show. He can serve her one last time.

"Please, sit, Mrs. Burns," he says, pulls out a chair on the left, and seats himself – not at the head – god, anything but that – no, he sits across from her, enforces distance, is puzzled when she keeps hold of the basket in her lap, both hands now clutching the handle. Brushes it aside for now. "How did you find your journey?"

To his surprise, she laughs a bit at that, an empty expulsion that does not reach her eyes that still stare blankly somewhere behind him.

He tries to calm his annoyance at her behavior. She is not making this easy, not making this any less awkward with her odd countenance, and hasn't she done enough? Hurt him enough? She could at least try, at least help him steer them through this situation they both clearly loathed.

Finally, she speaks.

"It was fine, Mr. Carson. Thank you."

It is short, clear. It is no olive branch.

He nods, keeps his fists clenched beneath the table.

"And your family? Mr. And Mrs. Scott? I trust they are well?"

She nods, still refuses to meet his eyes.

"They are. It is kind of you to ask."

His lips set in a thin line.

"Yes, well, it has been said from time to time. I'm not a complete ogre."

He can feel the heat beneath his collar rising, sense her eyes finally on him in time with her soft gasp that he is ignoring as he stands, pushes his chair back with a horrid screech, and makes his way to her side.

"Well, if that's all, Mrs. Burns, I'll have my basket then."

She stands, but doesn't let the handle go, is still gripping the damn thing, her small, pretty hands still tight like a vise around its handle.

"Mr. Carson, I -" she starts, but he cuts her off, does not want to hear what she has to say, cannot take this senseless dance any more than he anticipated he could.

"No, I think that's quite enough, Mrs. Burns, if you'll just give it here."

And he's reaching for it, but to his utter exasperation she is pulling it away from him, is sliding across the table out of his reach.

"Now, Mr. Carson, I don't think that's quite fair."

She says it in that tone of hers, the one she uses for brainless footmen or when she's trying to cajole him into doing something, into getting her way, and he cannot believe her, is utterly stunned by her callousness, her cruelty.

"Not fair? You don't think it's  _fair_?! Well, that's bloody rich coming from you, don't you think?"

He exclaims it at her and his voice cracks, and she's looking now, is pursing her lips and turning to face him, and he's half-aware that this is dangerous, that they should not be this close, that he should not have her so close to the edge of his table.

"No, I don't think, Mr. Carson. I am doing my  _best_  here in a situation that does not have to be awkward if we simply behave like two adult people."

He wants to laugh at her, wants to remind her what 'two adult people' might act like, and his anger is bubbling over now, has reached its peak in her righteous indignation, and he cannot resist, cannot remind himself, cannot stop what he's doing now as he pushes her just a bit, just enough to remind her, to perhaps torture her the way he has been tortured for months, years.

He takes one step, a small one, predicts correctly that she will take one back, will feel her bum hit the edge of the table, will find herself pressed there with only the basket between them.

He does not fail to notice her breath heaving, the buttons on her blouse straining against where he knows her corset is pushing, her breasts spilling over the edge, barely contained.

He closes his eyes, reminds himself this is meant to be bothering her, not him, that he is only bothering her just enough to remind her about  _not fair_ , about lost chances, about how she'd had what she wanted from him, but never would again.

His voice is low with his restraint when he speaks again.

"Give me the basket, Mrs. Burns."

She doesn't move, is staring up at his neck, not meeting his eyes.

"Give it here now and be on your way," he says again, moving just a bit forward, pressing himself just lightly to the basket, watching as it presses against the fabric of her skirt.

He is transfixed there and therefore quite startled to hear her.

"No," she says, clear and strong.

He wrinkles his brow.

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"Just what I said, Mr. Carson. No."

He is puzzled, utterly thrown off guard. What is she playing at?

He looks at her face. Her cheeks are flushed, her nose twitches lightly, once.

Ah, so she is angry too.

Good.

It serves her right. He wants her to feel angry with him. Wants to share the sharp fire of what he has learned about animosity and rancor. Alarm bells flash in his mind as he takes another tiny step closer, crowds her against the table, watches as her hip half-hikes to sit upon the edge in an effort to back away from him.

And he doesn't know what he's doing, he really doesn't.

"Don't be ridiculous. Give it here," he says, his hand joining hers on the handle, enveloping one entirely, and giving a swift tug, pulling her away from the table's edge because he is not aiming for that.

He isn't.

She gasps, pushes against him roughly and then tugs it back, trying to wrench it from his grasp.

It crosses his mind that this is ludicrous, that they are being completely juvenile, that they are accomplishing nothing here, but he is distracted, because they have, in fact, succeeded in pulling one another closer and he is mesmerized again by the ice-chip blue of her eyes, by the long, dark lashes, and pouting lips, by the pink that is spreading down her neck and chest. He barely hears her when she speaks.

"I said, no. This was packed by a dear friend for a  _gentleman_ , one who most certainly does not exist here."

She spits it, and he catches enough that it cuts him, but he is surprised to find he can still laugh, a low chuckle, watches as her eyes narrow, her lips part, no doubt to berate him again, to taunt him.

" _No_ ," he whispers, and it is both an answer and a command, "definitely not a gentleman."

And he is so close, his face so near to hers as it has been in every one of his dreams, and she is still breathing in little puffs that brush across his lips and he can't stand it, can't do this.

"Oh, just take the bloody basket then! Share it with whomever you'd like!"

He looks at her oddly, cannot imagine what she's on about, but is finding it hard to concentrate when she's wriggling against him as she is, pushing and pulling against him, turning herself to try to make him let loose of the thing.

She has let loose with one hand, is trying to use the other, beneath his, as leverage as she turns against him, into him, until she is pressed against him, her back to his chest, and the sensation makes his trousers tighten, his cock twitch. She's still wriggling, sliding herself back and forth trying to twist them, turn them in a way that might break his grip, but she is so small against him, so slight and petite, she is only serving to drive him mad.

She gives another, slow little shimmy as she continues her one-sided wrestling match and he can't take it anymore, harnesses his strength where he's been passive against her and spins her, them, so that she is pressed against his chest to chest and the basket is at their sides, still gripped in one of his hands over hers.

"Sod the basket," he says, pulling it hard from her hand and letting it drop to the floor with a clang, a clatter that they both ignore as he pulls her into a harsh kiss, lets the scent of roses wash over him, punishes her for torturing him with bruising pressure.

His tongue swipes across that bottom lip, already swollen from her incessant nibbling, and he feels he will die when she opens to him with a little whimper, when he feels her nails biting into his biceps.

_God. God. God._

This is ridiculous, is totally unwise, is all he's been thinking about for months.

Her mouth on his, his tongue tracing every detail he's remembered so many times he was sure he had started to embellish – the flavor of her, the softness, the warmth, the weight of her in his arms, the soft little sounds that drive him mad – but it is all there, everything, and he lets her have it, teases her tongue with his own, licks and nibbles at her lips until she is whining again, making those little whimpers he adores.

He should stop.

He is going to stop.

Any second now, he will push her away and he will stop and he will send her away.

He is busy alternating his worship between her top and bottom lips when she presses against him just lightly, tilts her head to the side, and he can't resist the invitation, can't help but crush his lips against hers, slide his tongue against her in a facsimile of something far more lewd, more devilish than simply kissing.

She moans deeply and it shoots straight to his cock and he considers, for a moment, backing her against the table again, reminding her exactly what sort of man he is, but this shakes him, awakens him from his drugged state, his high on her body pressed to his.

He presses one last kiss to her trembling lips, two.

He pushes her away, keeps hold of her shoulders for a minute more, a second, remembers the dusting of freckles.

His heart feels torn anew.

"No," he says, heaving. "Not a gentleman."

He peels his hands from her, looks in her eyes, sees something there he recognizes, something like a blue dress in a crowded tent, but he still cannot place it.

He bends slightly to pick up the basket, ignores her trembling gasp when he has to reach around her to set it on the table, restores their distance in a moment.

He looks at her desperately one last time, wills her to show him anything other than her wild eyes, to say anything, anything besides standing there silently regarding him like the fool he is.

He has rushed her again, has been rough, has cowed her into something she does not want, not really, not in the same capacity that he does.

The shame washes through him like icy water.

He has only made it worse for them both, does not bother apologizing, knows she will never forgive him any more than he will ever forgive himself.

"Come, Mrs. Burns. I'll see you out."

He turns to go, to lead the way back into his parlor, to see her out and close the door and finally rip the deplorable roses out from beneath his window bare-handed if he has to, when he feels her hand lock around his forearm, feels the cool of her palm against the heat of his skin, the gentle desperation of her nails digging in there, making little half-moons that he rashly hopes will mark.

He awaits some sort of assault, a slap or a scratch, is surprised by what he gets instead.

Her strong voice, her accent as thick as the day he met her so many years ago, hissing at him.

"Oh, I think not, Mr. Carson. I don't believe we are done."

And now it is him who is being pushed, crowded, pressed right up against the wall of his kitchen. It is her who is inserting herself between his thighs, slotting their legs together just so, crushing herself against him, whispering against his lips.

"Far from it."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

She ignores his muffled grunts as she tears her hat from her hair, sets upon him, pushes him back, back until he meets the wall and she can push herself against him, rise up and claim his lips, whisper against them.

"Far from it," she says, and she isn't sure what's possessed her, only that she feels like a wild thing, that he's been driving her mad and if she's going to hell anyway, she might as well enjoy this one last time.

She runs her hands along him, anywhere she can reach, up his chest and shoulders to his neck, the soft hollow where his collar is buttoned tight and she works her fingertips and nails against it, undoes it with surprisingly little effort and rises up on her toes to nuzzle him there, brush her nose against the soft skin and inhale his scent. The mixture of his pomade and something else, something low and spicy that must be his cologne or aftershave that clings there and she can't resist the urge to lick, to nibble lightly just against at that tender point.

When he gasps, just lowly, just lightly there where she can feel it deep in his throat it gives her a little shiver, makes her bold. She tilts her head just slightly and assaults the skin covering his collarbone, drawing it between her teeth and laving it with her tongue, applying gentle pressure until he makes that low noise again, gives her what she's craving – his surrender.

She doesn't know much about it, but she hopes desperately that she's marked him, laid some sort of claim he will have to hide later from  _Mrs. Emily Blythe._

That wicked thought spurning her on, she begins to unbutton him further, down his chest until the buttons disappear into his trousers and then she's jerking on the fabric, pulling the hem from his waistband and finishing the job, pressing up against him when she's done to kiss him, run her tongue along the seam of his lips, along his jaw, pull him tight by his open shirt and whisper in his ear.

"Should I go now, Charlie?" she asks, her lips brushing against his ear, placing tiny kisses there and down along his cheekbones. "Should I leave you to unpack your blessed basket in peace?"

Her voice is harsh, raspy, and she is asking with a flippancy she doesn't feel, with her heart pounding in her chest, terrified of his answer.

She waits impatiently for his response, fists her hands over and over in the fine fabric of his shirt, runs her palms along his strong chest, feels desperate for the contours of him through the cloth. Her lips continue their exploration of his cheek, the underside of his jaw, peppering him with tiny kisses and little brushes of her tongue against his skin. She doesn't know what is wrong with her, why she cannot stop, she only knows that she feels like she will die if she does, if she gives all this up now for the emptiness of her bed, for the ever-cooling nights of Scotland, for anything at all.

She slides her lips along his cheek, stopping at the corner of his mouth, places a few gentle kisses there in quick succession, asks again, her lips brushing against his where his ragged breath fans her chin and neck.

"Well, Mr. Carson, shall I leave you?"

There is a beat which she is sure lasts an hour, in which her heart breaks and she can feel the deep well of shame bursting, laughing at her, filling her completely, when finally he groans deeply, licks his lips, moves his hands from passive fists at his side to dig into her hips, hauls her up and into him so that she might feel the full effect of her ministrations.

"God, no. Don't you dare. Don't ever."

She doesn't have a moment to pause, before his lips are pressed against hers, his tongue swirling across the sensitive skin of her mouth, sliding along her tongue and the roof of her mouth in a move that makes her buck against him.

Gods damn it, God, she is damned, utterly bewitched, could not stop herself if she wanted to, is going to hell in a bloody handbasket, and if she were not so occupied with the task of pushing his braces from his strong shoulders, she would laugh at her own evil joke.

She is a sinful, wanton, wayward woman, with no morals to speak of, but she cannot bring herself to care when she can feel the impressive length of him pressed against her hip, her middle, pulsing there between them it drives her mad, brings her heat again and again, makes the throbbing between her legs turn to a desperate ache.

If this is to be their one last ― their goodbye — if he is to have her once more and then make an honest woman of Mrs. Blythe then she will have him too, will increase her sin ten - no, a hundredfold to have what she wants from him, which is everything he'll allow.

She is scratching down his vest-covered chest, aiming for the button in his trousers, the zip, when she feels him walking them forward, pushing off from the wall, he turns them and behind him she can see the shining surface of his kitchen table, glinting in the afternoon light, and she closes her eyes against it, can't think too hard about who they are and where they are and what they are doing because she doesn't want to ruin this, will cry a thousand tears later for her stupidity, she's sure, but for now she is focused on him, and learning everything she can so she can tuck it away, treasure it before he is gone from her again.

He has succeeded only in walking them to the parlor, has not been very attentive in his efforts as he has been very much preoccupied with the unbuttoning of her blouse, withdrawing his parted lips from the cords of her neck down to the swell of her cleavage as it presses up against the confines of her corset.

He is whispering something, but it is so low she cannot make out what it is.

He walks them a few more steps, bent as he is, pauses again to run his tongue along the edge of her shift, her corset, along her breasts, and she is reminded of his finger drawing along her neckline the last time before he gently undressed her, took down her hair, and she can't take it, can't stop the sharp arrow of arousal that shoots through her and she is pressing him again, hurrying him, turning him in their devilish dance until he is pressed against the wall again in a dark little hallway he'd been steering them toward.

She can feel him pulsing against her, the soft rocking of his hips toward her skirt as if asking, begging for something only she can grant him and that does it.

She is a wicked, terrible, filthy woman, but she knows what she wants.

In a swift motion, she gathers her skirts and drops to her knees before him, doesn't give him time to say whatever it is he's about to as she undoes the button and zip of his trousers, follows with the button of his shorts and pulls the lot down just enough so that she might hold him in her hand.

She hears his harsh exhalation, looks up to see his eyes on her with a desperate, torn expression. Remembering, she holds his gaze, raises her hand to her mouth and licks it once, hears his broken groan, before setting it upon him again and running it up and down the length of him.

She knows nothing about this, cannot attest to what he might like or what might hurt, so she keeps her eyes on him, looks up at him through her lashes and draws her hand up and down, slowly and lightly, feels the way he is growing swollen in her hand, is jumping and twitching against her palm.

When his eyes close and his head thumps back against the wall she thinks perhaps he is enjoying himself enough that she might experiment, might try one of the hundred smutty things she's imagined in her corrupt mind's eye.

Tentatively, she draws her thumb over his tip, spreading the little bead of liquid that had formed there down over him, right into the little cleft just under the head of him.

She is startled when he bucks, curses, pounds his fist into the wall.

She wants to ask him if he's alright, if what she's doing is alright, but she knows it isn't, knows she's nothing but a bawdy tramp, no better than a harlot, but it's too late for all that now, it is too late and she is too distracted with her efforts to make  _that_  happen  _again_.

She thinks a moment, keeps her pressure light, her hand stroking him fully, her thumb working that little ridge every time she reaches his tip. Then, leaning forward, she nuzzles the skin of his hip, runs her open lips along the exposed skin of him, remembers what he had been doing to her breasts moments ago, what he'd done to her on her kitchen table.

Keeping her slow pace, she kisses him there, in the valley where his pelvis meets his thigh, runs her tongue along the crease, blows across the skin and watches as he strains, tries to keep his hips from thrusting against her.

She can't imagine why, but she cannot dwell on it, is like a woman possessed, can feel the hot flush of her own arousal in her cheeks, her neck and chest as she explores him, runs her hand that is not occupied up his other thigh, scrapes through the coarse hair and then down, cups him beneath his shaft, runs her nails, just lightly against his skin.

She almost laughs when she feels him quake against her, buries her smile in his abdomen, begins placing gentle kisses down the trail of hair that leads from his navel to where her hand is still playing over him.

She knows what she wants to do next, what her mind is calling for, and she doesn't know if it's strange, if he will think her stupid or odd, but she remembers his lips upon her and cannot imagine turnabout is too bizarre.

He is breathing harshly, his hips beginning to press toward her of their own accord and she lets loose of him, watches as the slick length of him bobs and twitches between them, as another pearly drop forms along his slit.

She takes a deep breath, waits until his eyes open, and still watching him, places open mouth kisses, down, down, sinks until his tip rests just at her lips and she opens, places him just inside, applying no pressure at all, barely rocking so that her bottom lip slides over that spot that seems to please him.

"Fuck, fuck, Elsie,  _fuck_!" he says, and his hand is shooting up, threading into her hair, she can feel him grasping, and un-grasping there at the base of her skull, pulling tendrils free from her pins.

She tilts her head experimentally. His grip is not hard, not guiding her, but his fingertips are pressing against her scalp, seeking purchase there.

Looking up at him, holding his hips in her hands, she closes her lips around his tip.

"Jesus! Fuck. Elsie, God. Please."

She does not know what he's pleading for, what she should do, but he has used her name and she is aching herself, trembling, is rutting just lightly against nothing at all as he pulses in her mouth.

She draws back, keeping her lips closed around him, carefully watching as his face contorts, his mouth opens and he makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

Carefully, she regards him, flicks her tongue over the head of him and thinks of how he feels hot and hard and incredibly soft at the same time, how he tastes of salt and heat and something uniquely him, and how all she wants is more, how she will never get enough.

So, slowly, she has him. She grasps the base of him and runs her tongue along his length, revels in the way he clenches his hand when she finds a particularly sensitive spot, when she's pleased him and it causes him to pull her hair just a bit, just enough that she feels another rush of warmth between her legs.

With a final twist of her courage, Elsie places her lips against his tip, lets it part her lips slowly, and glides herself down over him as far as she can manage, and the noise he makes causes her to think she will come right then without him even touching her. He is panting, grunting, closing his eyes against her image.

And she must look a state, can't imagine how he sees her down on her knees as she is, still dressed, only half unbuttoned with her corset digging into her hips, pushing her breasts up, tight and high, her hair a snarled mess in his palm and her lips wet with him, them.

Over and over she takes him, in, out of her mouth, licks all around him, experiments with changes in pressure and light suction, using her hands and mouth in tandem until he is practically growling, rasping, desperate with the efforts it's taking not to do whatever it is he's trying not to do to her.

She gives another sloppy kiss to his tip, flicks her tongue just there and is then startled by his cry, his clutching of her hair and her arm and his pulling her up, up off her knees and against him, plundering her mouth with his tongue.

"You're going to kill me, that—you –  _fuck_ , Elsie, you're going to kill me."

She hopes not, but cannot find the words to say it as he turns her, thrusts her in front of him, kicks his shoes, his trousers, shorts and socks from his legs, is standing only in his undone shirt and vest, looking at her darkly.

She cannot stop her eyes from flickering down to his cock, wonders how she might get back to touching him, is dizzy with her desire to do so.

She looks back up at him desperately and he begins to stalk toward her, grabbing her waist, pulling her against him and walking them backward again, and she thinks absurdly that this is why they could never dance at the servant's ball or in the tent or anywhere, because this is how their bodies were made to be, to fit together, and it would have made her insane, would have made her forget herself entirely, would have gotten them both sacked without a reference.

He pushes her up against his door for a few blissful moments, presses himself against her through her skirts and eases some of the desperate ache, the acute emptiness she is feeling there, and then he is reaching behind her, fumbling, grasping at the handle, twisting, and they are bursting through the door into the yellow light of his bedroom.

It is sparse, there is no evidence of decoration or feminine touch, but she does not dwell on that now. Perhaps Mrs. Blythe is his love and she, Elsie, his whore and the former would not be caught dead in his bedroom, especially not in broad daylight, especially not having done what she just did, what's she knows she's about to do. Perhaps she is prim and proper, just like him, deserving.

The thought tears at her chest and brings her anger again and she is pushing him firmly with the heel of her hand, has become so very bold and brash in her fierce desire to have this with him, to have it out, to turn each other inside out one last time. She will not do this with him once he's married, once he's made clear he's found another. She will not  _fuck_  another woman's husband, but she will have this, this afternoon in his lovely cottage and his sunny room with his pulsing sex, hot, ready for her.

She imitates him, growls back as he has at her, forces the rest of his things up and off him, over his head, runs her nails across him, still nudging, pushing, guiding him, and when his knees hit the bed she doesn't cease her movements, the press of her hand against his chest until he is lying back against the thin summer quilt of his bed.

Quickly, she finishes the work of undoing her blouse, of unfastening her skirt and kicking it off, watches as he watches her, propped up on his elbows, doesn't miss the lick of his lips, the twitch of his cock.

She has worn lighter, shorter knickers today and her thinnest shift, as warm as it's been, and she can see he is transfixed by her chest, her breasts as they strain against her corset and as she takes a deep breath she delights in the way it isn't quite full. He is making her frantic and he isn't even trying.

And she can't bother, cannot be fussed with the small clips, the hooks and eyes that remain holding her in place, she can only stalk toward him, watch as he walks himself back on his elbows until she can crawl between his legs, can tower over him and she thinks ferociously that she likes him like this, spread beneath her for the taking.

She feels drugged, hazy, drunk on her lust for him and she cannot resist leaning down to kiss him once more on the crown of his cock as it strains up toward her, the urge to run her tongue against him in a few gentle flicks until he is panting again, saying her name in little breathless chants she rises up to swallow.

Gently, so slowly, carefully, she moves astride his hips, looks down at him hungrily as she feels him pulsing against her knicker-clad bottom.

She swallows hard, licks her lips watching the darkness of his eyes, feeling his fingers clench her hips, his long hard muscles straining beneath her, beseeching her to move against him.

She knows this must be wrong, that this is not the way of things, with her on top and him beneath her, but she thinks of all those times, those many occasions when he has been pompous, when he has been cocky, pretentious, and smug, when he has discreetly expressed his pride in his own power, his own strength and masculinity and thinks how much she loves the idea of all that prestige, that brawn and fortitude coming apart beneath her.

It makes her quiver just to think it and she lurches forward, rubbing herself against him, shifting, grinding against his stomach through her knickers. She likes this too, being clothed atop his nakedness, feeling the frustrated scratch of his nails along the sides of her corset.

She leans forward then and kisses him thoroughly again, traces the outline of his lips with her tongue, and it is wet and sloppy and likely without skill, but it makes him buck regardless, and she uses the advantage of her leaning over to tilt her pelvis just slightly and trap his cock between his stomach and the slit of her knickers, rolls her hips against him just enough that with every stroke he parts the fabric and touches the heat of her there.

"God, Elsie," he pants, and she lowers herself to her forearms, folds her hands atop his head, scratches there just lightly as she plays with his lips, continues her rocking.

She does not want this to be easy for him, does not know how well she is succeeding.

"What?" she says, and oh, she is terrible, is shameless and outrageous, but she wants to taunt him, wants to give him something to dream about when he is making nice, respectable love to his new bit of frock.

She slides against him again, reaches down to part herself completely there, to run herself along him.

"God, please just do it, please," he rasps.

She rises up, considers him as his eyes squeeze shut at the change in pressure, does not cease her rocking, waits patiently for him to open his eyes again, cocks her brow when their eyes meet.

"Please, Mrs. Hughes, have me."

It is not what she expects, not what she thought she would hear in the deep baritone, rocking through her, making her hips jolt, and she suddenly finds that she is just as desperate, cannot linger anymore, will have to teach her lesson another way.

"Yes," she says and rises up, grasps him in her palm, holds him steady while she lowers herself over him, slowly, letting herself adjust to his size.

God, she has relived it a thousand times, but even her vivid imagination could not replicate the rightness of this, the fullness, how she feels complete with him between her thighs.

She is basking in the feeling, is biting her lip and squeezing him deep inside her when she is startled from her reverie by a broken whimper that she actually feels rise up from his chest.

"Jesus, what you do to me. Please, Elsie.  _Move_ , love, please."

His eyes are closed so he does not see her look at his endearment, is too far gone to pay any mind to the choked sound that escapes her.

"Look at me," she instructs, and it somehow manages to be both soft and commanding, and he does, follows her order without hesitation.

With his eyes on her, she rises up, slowly, slowly, before coming back down again fast, slamming their hips in a motion that makes them both moan.

" _Fuck_ ," she whispers, long and drawn out, and the word from her tongue makes him jolt toward her again.

Soon they fall into the rhythm she sets, slowly rising up then slamming back down until she is riding him, taking him, and he is grunting, expelling harsh little sighs with every thrust, begging her with his jerking hips to move faster, to take him hard, and it is what she wants too, so she does.

She is artless, she's sure, has no idea what she's doing, but she leans forward just a bit and rocks the way she wants to, harsh and hard, and feels him pounding against her just there, the spot inside he'd helped her discover the last time they'd done this and now she is moaning too, taking the lord's name over and over as she impales herself on his hard length, feels him twitch and writhe beneath her, the slickness of them moving together.

She is breathless, so close, can feel the tight coil within her curling tighter and tighter, is humming against him, and then she feels herself splinter, shaking, rippling over him again and again, crying out as she continues to slam down upon him, drawing out her release. She manages once, twice, three times more before she feels him come apart inside her, releasing his seed into her and she could cry, could actually weep, wants nothing more than to hold him there within her forever.

He allows her, them, a minute, a few before he is turning them lifting her off him like she weighs nothing and she immediately misses the feel of him inside her, for an awful moment thinks he is setting her aside, sending her away, until he tosses her back against the pillows, looks at her with the stern hunger she knows she will crave when this is done and he goes back to the arms of another.

Roughly, he spreads her legs, and she knows she should be embarrassed by the wetness of her knickers, the dark spot that is sticking to her thighs, but he has helped her make it and she will not apologize to him for that.

"God," he says and she can only close her eyes, can only wait for what will come next, what he will rain down upon her.

* * *

She is like something from a scandalous novel, a filthy dream, far beyond anything his imagination could conjure.

Even as he softens, he feels incredibly aroused, wants nothing more than to see her come apart again, like a man who has not had water in weeks he wants nothing more than to drink from her again and again, and so he shall because she has had her fill, has had him exactly how she wanted him. He has been so very polite and good, but she will not be the only one to get what she wants, to have her body used and taken and, at least in his case, adored.

He still does not know what she feels, is trying not to let that bother him too terribly, will take what she will give, and the sight of her mussed and wet and altogether ready to be debauched is enough to distract him for the moment.

He looks down at her speculatively for a moment, takes in how her sweet blue eyes are looking up at him so softly, so sated, so different from the picture she presented down on her knees, her breasts thrust up so tantalizingly, her pretty berry lips swollen and moist as she took him in over and over, the delicate swirl of her tongue.

"Fuck," he says again, and he has never cursed so in his life, has never felt this close to complete insanity with want and lust and love.

In a smooth, quick motion he pulls her up by her waist so she is straddled around his middle where he sits on his knees between her thighs, does not struggle to remember what she had taught him about undressing her, about making her ready to lie with him in utter contentment, has relived it too many times to forget a single detail.

He pushes and pulls on the busk of her corset until it comes undone and her breasts spring free, filling the flimsy slip she is wearing. He tosses the garment to the side and they do not break their gaze as he carefully searches for and finds the clips of her garters, unclips them hastily and kisses her when the snap of them causes her to whimper. Moving languidly, he strokes down her sides, feeling her through the thin cotton that covers her, sliding down until he reaches the hem of her chemise and lets his hands slip beneath, untie the ribbon of her knickers.

He tickles her stomach there, runs the pads of his fingers against the softness of her, feels the gooseflesh rise across her skin.

He leans in to kiss her again, slow, stroking his tongue along hers, trying to make her feel his want, his love for her in every motion.

He continues his drawn-out worship of her mouth even as he sets her back against the pillows, moves her with ease so that she is spread beneath him.

He nips her lips, runs his tongue along her teeth and feels her whimper before he pulls away, kisses slowly down the side of her throat with hot, open-mouthed caresses.

With his hands he gathers her shift, draws it up, up, drags it over the skin of her thighs to make them tremble, pulls until she has to lift her hips, her back, raise her arms so he can draw it over her head.

He spends a few moments just admiring her breasts, taking in the light freckles, the rosy tips, the way she smells strongest of roses there, even as she sweats and pants, writhes slightly beneath him.

He uses one forearm to prop himself over her and the other to keep her hips in place as he leans forward and kisses her softly, just there on the tip of her breast, groans as she bucks against his arm.

With purpose this time, he flicks over the sensitive peak with his tongue, watches in wonder as it tightens, puckers, and he cannot resist drawing it into his mouth, sucking lightly and then harder when she keens, strains up, uses her hands to push him closer.

He lingers there a moment before releasing her hips and drawing his other hand up to give attention to her opposite side, and he can't believe, could not have predicted how this would affect her, how she would buck and jump against him as he lightly drew his teeth over one peak and flicked his thumb over the other.

He loves the sound of her brogue as she says "oh, god," again and again, whispers Gaelic frantically against his ear, digs her nails into his scalp.

"A dhia cuidich mi, tha gaol agam ort," she says and he has no idea what it means, but it spurs him forward, makes him double his efforts.

"Yes, love, yes," is all he can manage in return, and he tries not to read into her shaking cry, her nails pressing into his shoulder now, scoring his back.

Sweetly, gently, he trails his kisses down her abdomen, the creamy soft skin that has done nothing but plague him for months, dips his tongue into the dip of her navel and smiles as she thrusts toward him.

He wishes he could be ready for her again, could gather himself quickly enough to join them again, but it will be enough to see her come apart once more, to have her pulse around his tongue and cry out and scream, and if he never gets anything from her again he will have this memory, something soft and slow to store beside the one of them hot and fast on her kitchen table.

He moves further then, draws his teeth over her hipbones where they jut from the tops of her knickers, nuzzles his nose against her mound through the cotton and breathes hotly there.

He looks up to see her eyes closed, her fist gripping the sheet and the pillow beside her head, biting her lip with the effort of not speaking, of not spilling whatever delicious cries are being held from pouring between those gorgeous lips.

He runs his hand up her middle, flickers over her nipple, plays there lightly with his fingers and feels her rock against the weight of his chest where he is pressed against her.

"What is it, Elsie?" he says, and his question makes her whimper, and he wouldn't know if it was in pain or pleasure if it weren't for her straining hips.

"Hmm, love? Tell me."

"Stop it. Don't say – please, I can't."

He realizes too late he's been calling her love, and that she wouldn't want that and ice shoots through him, cools him.

"I'm sorry, I ―"

"No, don't, I'm sorry ― please just, god, Charlie, I want you, so badly, I can't think, just please."

He heaves a sigh. She wants him. She wants him and that will have to be enough.

But still, a twisted little part of him rebels, whispers in his ear that perhaps he can convince her that they should do this again, that she should visit or he should expressly for this purpose, that if he slowly woos her, he will be able to coax more, to stoke her feelings, to inspire something close to the love he feels for her. Perhaps if he can care for her as tenderly as he wants to, can show her how it could be between them, over time she might see he has his merits, could do her good, could love her enough for the both of them.

"Yes, Elsie, anything, everything you want," he says, and bites just softly at the skin above the band of her knickers, pinches the flesh gently between his teeth and loves the sharp intake of her breath, the way she moves for him.

Slowly, he lowers them, pulls her knickers off and tosses them aside, plays lightly with the tops of her stockings until she is rocking again, moaning, twisting against the quilt and him and calling out again in broken English and Gaelic, the melody of her voice washing over him.

"Please, ghaoil, mo ghràidh, please."

"Yes, Elsie, yes, gods you are beautiful, so beautiful," he whispers it against her as he had before, in the darkness of the hall, and does not look at her face to see her reaction, could not bear it if she did not approve, did not want his praises.

Quietly, reverently, he bends before her, moves further down to where her dainty heels are perched against his bed, and he unbuckles them, sets his large hands to work on the tiny closures and pulls them off, one by one, tosses them to the side and holds her small feet in his hands, marvels at how delicate she is here, how the arch of her foot is high and soft, how she twitches when he runs his thumb along it.

He is overwhelmed, momentarily, by his love for her, his fierce desire to know her every inch, to be familiar with every curve, to have the right, the pleasure, to see her and touch her and be with her always. To know her as no one else could, to be her only.

He looks up at her, panting, her hair a tangled mess, her eyes heavy with desire, licking her lips.

He wants to please her over and over, always, if only to see that look in her eyes.

Lightly, he moves up, kissing her skin as he goes, until he licks at the tops of her stockings, runs his tongue around one edge and then the other, watches her eyes squeeze shut, her poor tortured lip pulled under her teeth. He teases his fingers beneath the band of them, takes care as he draws them off slowly, draws them down the silky length of her legs one by one, over those delicate arches and off. Unable and unwilling to resist, runs the pads of his fingers up her bare flesh once they are gone, barely touching her, skimming over the creamy white of her calves and knees and thighs, drumming along the softness of where they join her magnificent hips, delights in the way she shakes, the way her knees jerk as he tickles the backs of them.

She is making soft whining noises now, little incoherent sounds, and he is sure she has no idea, does not know the way her tiny cries are torture, heaven, the height of pleasure, how he wants to hear her make them all day long for the rest of his life.

Headily, quite enchanted with his Highland witch as she huffs and mewls beneath him, he draws his fingers down, down until he spreads her, reveals her secret flesh, does not mind her hands as they shoot into his hair this time, wastes no time stroking hot and heavy along her nub, relishing the way she chokes on her own cries.

He wants to unravel her, wants her to remember, even if he never touches her again, the magic they are together, the way that he can make her wanton just for him, can make her forget her name, cry his own.

And she's doing it now, is tugging his hair and crying his name, and he circles her there relentlessly, leans down and draws his tongue along the length of her and teases into her entrance, eagerly devours the taste of them together between her folds, places hot kisses against the glistening pink of her skin there.

He pulls away long enough to look up at her, rake his eyes along her form from her mussed hair to her hooded eyes, to her flushed chest where she has moved a hand, fingers playing at her nipple, until he is staring at her moist folds again and cannot believe his luck, even if he only has this woman like this these two times, even if his heart never heals and the roses beneath his windows plague him for the rest of his sorry life, it will be worth it to see her, his strong, capable, honorable Mrs. Hughes panting, desperate, nearly sobbing with it, soaking his quilt, undulating beneath him.

He's waited for her for over twenty years and realizes with clarity at this moment that he will never truly be sated, will crave her constantly until his final breath.

He does not care a bit.

She bites her lip and he lowers himself to her trembling flesh, pulls against her mound until he can see her, can hold her open to him completely and then explores her once more with his tongue, bit by bit, draws her into his mouth and laves her, drinks in her flavor, and thinks madly how she is like a flower blooming beneath him as he moves his tongue up, softly, slowly, and works against her just there.

She rolls her hips against him, claws at him, tries to get him to up his pace, but he will not have it, will not be rushed, especially not now that he knows what it is to be without her, to lack this privilege, no, as before, he will savor her to his heart's content, will take pride in making her come undone again like this, so slowly against his lightly pressing tongue.

He circles over her again and again, dipping only when he feels her dripping, gathers her wetness to swirl with his tongue against that sensitive bundle, feels her desperate motions against his chest as he leans against her thighs.

"Yes, that's it Elsie, god, yes, I want to feel you, you are so  _wet_ , so hot,  _fuck_  I never imagined, it has never been like this before," he rumbles it against her nonsensically as he is losing himself now as well, in the time he has spent teasing her, luxuriating in her desperation, bestowing this pleasurable anguish, has grown against the soft skin of her leg and the mattress and is thrusting there now, increasing the pressure.

"You are so ready, Mrs. Hughes aren't you? Soaking, Christ, for  _me_ ," he pants, frantic to remind her, to burn into her memory exactly what is happening between them, "just for me, god."

His tongue is sliding over her in tiny circles now, light and still so deliciously slow and she is crying out, screaming with it and he is grinding down, is using his other hand to reach beneath himself and press against his cock, and it is a poor substitution for her, for the warm wetness of her, but it is enough when he is here with her like this, touching her, driving her toward her completion with each gentle swipe of his tongue.

"Yes, for  _you_ , yes, please, please, please," she says, and he continues his slow motions, deliberate and sure and then he can feel her coming, can see her there, spasming, clenching, bucking and crying out, thumping his mattress with her palm.

"Yes, Charlie, yes, God, God, Charlie, ghaoil, mo ghràidh, I ― God, a dhia cuidich mi, tha gaol agam ort."

And it is the sound of her, the sight of her, her voice and her nails in his hair, the vision of her quaking and clenching beneath him that causes him to come again, to empty himself against her leg and the quilt and cry her name into the hollow of her throat as he rises up over her, surrenders himself to the embrace of her open arms, her clutching hands, and kisses her with all the love he cannot say.


	17. Chapter 17

He holds her there a few moments and she revels in the feel of him above her, upon her, the way she feels completely sated, tries not to think of anything else.

They are breathing the same air, and he has a hand in her hair, brushing it back from her face in a gesture so intimate it almost feels more personal than what they've just done — again.

Almost.

Then he is shifting, rolling them so that his weight is off her pulling the covers out and over them, and he doesn't tug, but she follows anyway, curls herself into his side and rests her head on his chest.

His breathing is deep, relaxed, and the now-familiar burn in her throat rises up, begins to tighten.

"Elsie—" he says, but she shushes him, lays a hand on his chest.

"Shh, just rest now. We'll rest."

There's a heavy pause in which she knows he wants to press the issue, wants to say whatever it is he's come up with to tell her, but she thinks she knows what it is, and she can't bear it yet, not just yet.

She cannot stomach his asking her to leave.  
And so she strokes his chest, makes soothing little sounds, and traces the muscles she finds there until she feels his grip on her hip slacken, his breaths deepen.

Only then does she let the tears come, quiet and soft, wetting her cheeks and his chest until she drifts off too, there against his side.

* * *

She is the first to wake, is stirred by the shifting light from the window striking her face.

She is confused at first, and warm. Extremely warm, cannot figure out why she feels so heavy, so weighed down, until she opens her eyes to see his arm draped over her waist, feels his thigh slotted between hers, his leg pinning hers in place.

She tries to shift and feels the gentle ache in her thighs, her sex.

Right, she is in his bed, in Charles Carson's bed, in his cottage, in Yorkshire, and she should have been back hours ago.

Cringing as she thinks of Beryl and the relentless interrogation she'll no doubt get, she closes her eyes.

Just another moment. Another second of peace in which she is not a fallen woman of no standards and certainly no virtue, in which she shall not have to make up some grand lie to excuse her tardiness.

For a moment she is his and he hers and his heavy hand on her stomach holds hers with a golden ring on her fourth finger.

She rests there. Breaths in, out.

She is his, undoubtedly and irrevocably, but it doesn't change the fact that he is not hers.

Not hers at all.

Her heart clenches in a sickening sensation with which she is unfortunately very well acquainted these days and she feels the moment break, burst.

She has done it again, has been stupid over him, for him, has given in to the side of herself that she loathes, wishes away.

She is not a simple woman, is not brainless, does not lack sense, common or otherwise — knows so overwhelmingly better than this that it repulses her to think she has this capability within her, this proclivity for absolute depravity. She cannot reconcile that she, she who has built a life around denial, around scarcity and decorum and respectability, is underneath it all this warped woman with such debased desires.

The pleasant warmth she's been feeling shifts and changes until she is aflame, awash with shame.

As if her own horrid flaws weren't enough, she'd dragged him into her mess. Twice now. He was a man, after all, and she knew better — the thought echoes again — she absolutely knew better than to tempt fate, knew it was her responsibility to remain unsullied, to carry enough sense for the both of them where matters of...intimacy...were concerned. And in that way, she's failed him again.

She's failed him and herself and she's had what she wanted, by God, but at what cost?

She thinks of Glenna and her understanding smile, Beryl and her smirk, Anna's twinkling gaze, the inane smile of Mrs. Blythe, and how it all adds up to her absolute humiliation, lying naked here with him, and even worse feeling nothing but contentment, joy at the contact.

She feels twisted, chaotic, deranged, doesn't understand what's happening within her at all. How she can simultaneously love and hate the feeling of them pressed together like this so completely.

She will likely lose everything, she realizes ― her friends, her family, her reputation. Once they all know her guilt, see it written plainly on her face, etched in her skin and the way she looks at him, speaks of him, thinks of him and them and the magic they are together — every second of every day.

They would not all be Glenna, bound to her by love and duty. They would not all understand her heart or its desperate cry for him. They would not look at her sympathetically after his engagement, his wedding. They will look at her with contempt, will have no pity for a whore.

At what cost indeed.

She looks at him again. Shifts slightly so that they are chest to chest and she can see the broad curve of him there, up to the sharp line of his jaw. Searches for the little mark she'd tried to leave on his throat, is disappointed to find that it is lighter than she'd intended, probably gone by morning, knows she'll never have a chance to remedy that now.

Using a gentle finger, she traces the freckles in the middle of his breastbone with reverence, with the knowledge she will have to banish herself after this because she knows one thing for certain now: she will never be able to resist him.

Married or not, she would be his mistress just to keep him near.

And that is not the person Elsie Hughes wants to be, not who she  _is_  at all.

Carefully, so lightly, she brings her lips to his chest, brushes against where she can feel his heart beating sure and steady beneath her palm, then looks up slowly, through heavy lashes at his face, soft and youthful in slumber, and tells him goodbye in her mind, says a million apologies for bringing them here again, for confusing, wounding, embarrassing them both, for making him into a rascal and her a slut, for all the things she never said before this holy mess fell down around them and left their lives, their whole existence together, twenty solid years, in complete shambles.

She tries to tell him that she'll always love him in the softness of her gaze, the brush of her fingers, the barely-there pressure of her lips.

Tries to wish him well.

When it gets too painful to gaze at his sleeping face and the shadows in the room have shifted again, Elsie begins to move, to slowly, carefully untangle their limbs, unravel the parts of them that have been so twined together — inside and out.

And her heart breaks with it, with each slow movement like the excruciating peeling back of a bandage, or the stitching of a wound with a dull needle.

It is a few minutes before she is free.

 _Free_.

She barely refrains from snorting. If there's one thing she shall never be, it's free of Charles Carson.

Cautiously, she rises, keeping one anxious eye on his prone form, his lax features.

Tiptoeing around his room, the first thing she finds, tangled in the foot of the bed, is her shift, which she pulls on in one swift motion. It does little for her modesty, but she figures that's shot to hell anyway.

She begins to scour the floor for her knickers, sees them nowhere, is beginning to get frantic when suddenly he heaves a sigh and she freezes, her eyes darting to him.

He's scowling now, turned toward where she'd been moments ago, a hand on the pillow she'd used.

She watches him for a moment to ensure he is asleep before she returns to her searching, finally spies the damn things half-concealed beneath his bed.

She thinks wickedly, just for a moment, the barest hint of a second, about leaving them behind, kicking them under, about letting them lie there in wait of Mrs. Emily Blythe and her abject horror that her husband has had another woman, and, what's more, that this other woman has had him right back, would have him again right under her nose if given half the chance.

The scathing nastiness of the thought jars her and she cannot believe herself, does not know what she needs to rid herself of the demon who most certainly possesses her, but it makes her move faster, she must get out of here, must distance herself from him and whatever strange hold her love for him lords over her.

She seeks out her stockings, finds them strewn one on the night table, the other on the opposite bedpost, feels a little shiver, a flame in her at the wanton imagery of it all, then scolds herself again for her own crooked nature.

She is a fiend and make no mistake about it.

Carefully, as quiet as she can, she finds her shoes, closes her eyes against the memory of his fingers pressing into her arches so sweetly when he'd removed them. Opens them again immediately, because that does not douse the lovesick ache that bolts through her, the part of her that wishes there was truth in that tenderness.

It certainly does nothing to discourage the part of her that remembers what came next.

Angry, furious with herself, rebelling valiantly against the desire, the pleasure she is still feeling, she casts about for her corset, sees it at the other side of the bed and treads lightly that way, winces at every creak of the floorboards and watches him closely, carefully, for any signs of wakefulness.

Bending, she picks the discarded garment up, begins to wrap it around her middle, but her hands are shaking now and she's having trouble seeing, finding the edge of the busk and getting it to line up. She wants to curse, wants to stomp her foot and do any number of other disgustingly juvenile things because she's done this thousands of times and  _now_ she's unable, but she can't, must stay quiet, stay absolutely silent and not disturb him, must escape before he wakes.

She feels the urge to curse, as she realizes she's got it all crooked, the bottom of the damned thing not lining up. Quickly, she undoes it. Tries again.

"Shall I help you?"

And his voice startles her, provokes a little scream from her throat as she whirls toward him, stunned to find him awake and sitting up, staring at her with a look in his eyes that she can only place as pity.

Pity for her and her stupid sluttish behavior, her staying so long, sleeping against him, seeking tenderness between them outside of their lewd interludes.

"No, no, of course not. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

She tries to stay calm, business-like, channels every last scrap of her training, her professional demeanor to get her through this, to help her live through this utter shame with his eyes upon her so sad and broken for her.

She finally gets the wretched thing done up.

"You haven't― that is, I'm not ― you couldn't possibly."

She is confused by his halting words, his broken statements in place of his usual articulateness, the way he is looking at her with that pained expression and something else, something she doesn't recognize.

"I'm just searching for ― ah, here it is," she says, spotting her blouse half-tangled with his shirt near the side of the bed he is currently occupying. She makes to reach for it, but he gets there first, swings his long legs over the side of the bed, bends, and grasps it between his fingers, seems to consider a moment before handing it over to her.

She notices, absurdly, how small it appears in his hands, how delicate against his strong, capable fingers.

She swallows, hard. She is a sick woman.

Silence lingers between them as she tries to make quick work of her buttons, keeps doing them wrong, cursing herself under her breath for fouling even this simple act up, for making this harder for them both. He is surely itching for her to leave, to get on, leave him be.

"Let me," he says.

"Mr. Carson, really, that's not―"

"Come here," he says again and his tone does not allow for argument. It is not harsh, but that is what makes it irresistible to her ― the softness of him there, the willingness to help, even in the height of her humiliation, even as a part of her finds his help with her leaving completely unbearable, she moves toward him, allows his fingers to do her back up again ― work his magic in reverse.

When he gets to her collar it is all she can do to keep from panting, surging toward him, and it makes her want to cry, to scream for more reasons than she can count.

He is buttoning her there, smoothing his large hands over her shoulders, weighing her down, making it doubly hard to leave his side, and she is working up the gumption, is ready to tear herself away finally, when he speaks.

"Please don't," he says and it's simple and his grey eyes are shining at her with that same something, something he's trying to make her understand, and she's not sure what to make of it, can't think, can't process what it could possibly mean.

So she laughs lightly, steps away, does not meet his eyes.

Will not make this any harder, any more grisly than it already is.

"Whatever do you mean? Don't what?"

He looks at her hard and she can feel her face burning, her chest, cannot imagine what he's on about.

"Don't go yet," he says.

And she doesn't know what to make of that at all. What could he possibly mean by saying such a daft thing?

She closes her eyes, realizes he probably feels obligated to her in some way, as before, required to say some fluff and nonsense to send her off having dealt the blow a little more delicately.

She swallows back the bile that burns in her throat, forces an airy tone.

"You know I must. I shouldn't even be here now," she says, because what else is there to say?

She is scouring the room for her skirts, wondering where she doffed them, or worse, flung them.

She closes her eyes again in frustration, wishes he were still asleep so she could bloody think straight, wishes she'd never set eyes on the blasted basket, never stepped foot on the train, never listened to Glenna read that cursed letter from Beryl.

* * *

He watches her in silent agony as she prepares to leave him once again.

He cannot say he was surprised to open his eyes to the soft rustle of her movements, the whispered curses, to find her trying frantically to escape him, them, what they'd done.

All she does is run from him.

No, not surprised, but desperately sad, for him, for her, for the whole goddamn wreck of them.

But watching her struggle so helplessly against being there with him had broken him in a new way. He could think of nothing but to help her, to give her what she clearly wanted, to set her free.

She would hold him trapped for all time in the palm of her dainty hand and he would never see her again, would only be tormented by her memory and the scent of roses he knows now he will never tear out, never burn.

He watches her face watch his hands as he buttons, fastens, brushes her shoulders, and she is still looking quite undone, her hair a wild nest of waves and loose ringlets, her garments all just slightly askew, wrinkled.

He thinks he's never seen someone more perfect than Elsie Hughes standing here in his bedroom in the bright afternoon light searching for the rest of her garments.

Beautiful and heart-wrenching.

He sees them before she does.

"Your skirts are here," he says, stretching to pull them from where they are pooled between the nightstand and his bed like a pretty green and white flower.

Good God, he's surely lost it entirely if he's waxing poetic about her clothes now.

"Thank you," she whispers, and it's quiet and her voice cracks and he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what she wants from him.

"Elsie, I —"

He has no idea where he's going with his statement, but it doesn't matter because she's already pulled her skirts on, fastened them haphazardly and is cutting him off, won't let him speak.

"Hat!"

She exclaims it and his brows shoot up, startled.

Hat, what?

"I mustn't forget my hat, it's in your kitchen, I'll just, well—"

She looks at him for a moment and he feels that tug again, right in the center of his chest, as if this is his chance and he's missing it, blowing it again as her brows furrow, her chin dips.

"I'll see myself out, Mr. Carson," She finishes and he hates the finality there, the way the room seems stupidly bright now, blinding him and making him overheat.

He means to tell her she'll do no such thing, that she shouldn't be leaving, or that she should at least do him the courtesy of a polite goodbye, give him more than the hollow, hopeless feeling she's left in his chest.

Make him feel a little more than used.

He means to tell her all that and more, but she is already gone, out the bedroom door, he can hear her heels clicking down the hall toward the kitchen, and the way they recede, the way he can actually hear her walking from his life once more springs him into action.

Not again. Not this bloody time. Not without at least an explanation, an understanding.

He cannot live without her. Even if they are only friends. Even if they only exchange letters sometimes, discussing nothing of consequence. Even if she only wants him for this, wants to do this with him sometimes, he must try.

He must.

He cannot take time to dress, would not have the supplies in hand even if he did, so he wraps the sheet around himself, an undignified look if ever there was one, but he doesn't have time to care, can't focus on style and flair or sweeping her off her feet when he must catch her before she leaves, before she cuts his heart again and he never, ever stops bleeding.

He is almost running, as best he can in his makeshift toga, and he is saying wait, is trying to catch up with her before she dons her hat and slams his door.

So hurried is he that he nearly runs into her back where she's stopped still in the kitchen doorway, watching his countertop with fixed interest, an intensity it certainly doesn't deserve when he is behind her, in a sheet, trying to beg her not to leave, to at least consider him, his offer to give her anything she wants in whatever capacity she wants it, only not to leave him.

"What—?" He begins, looking confusedly between her and the countertop until he traces her gaze to the three and a half sticky buns still in their little box there.

This clarifies nothing, for she can't possibly know he's bought them with her in mind, has done everything with her in mind for the better part of his life, but at least he has something to work with, to go on.

"Oh," he clears his throat, "they're buns," he says stupidly, "from the baker's. There's a lovely widow there who runs it now and —"

"Yes. Lovely," she says, interrupting him and tearing her gaze from the buns, bending to pick up her hat, then, seeing the scattered contents of his basket, beginning to pick them up too.

One by one, little jars and paper-wrapped goods are gathered and he is still so lost, but he can't very well leave it to her alone, so he bends, helps with one hand the best he can and tries not to shiver every time their fingers brush.

"Really, this is unnecessary, I can deal with it myself. You don't have to—"

"Of course you can. You don't need me."

She says it fiercely, throwing a little jam jar into the basket so hard he's afraid it might have broken, and he is completely befuddled, does not understand this change in mood at all.

"I only meant—"

"Oh, I know what you meant," she hisses it, but he can see her features crumple, her lip between her teeth.

And he is feeling desperate now, completely lost at sea.

What on earth does she want?

She gathers herself before he does, because that is the way of things, and before he can process exactly what's happening here, she's speaking again, babbling in that way he used to find charming when she was annoyed with a maid or trying to cajole him into doing something.

There is always, he has learned, a grain of truth in her ramblings, so he tries to listen, to pick it out so that he might turn it over in his hands, see it and understand it and know what the bloody hell to do about it.

"Please don't worry about me. Don't worry about a thing. I am fine and this is fine and it's been... _difficult_...for both of us, I understand that, but I don't want to make you think I shall turn this into some sort of issue, or that you must say something to placate me or keep me quiet, because I won't and you don't. I'll simply take my hat and try to tame my hair a bit and then I'll be off and you won't have to bother with any of it, won't have to say any of it like  _before_. I won't bother you, I swear it. I'll just be off."

She says it all very quickly and he's not sure he's following, not sure she's making much sense, truth be told, so he tries to stop her, slow her down.

"Elsie-"

She huffs at him, frustrated, but still won't meet his eyes, is frantically turning her hat in her hands as if she can't find the front of the thing, which he thinks is rather silly because it's  _right there._

"Mr. Carson please, let's not make this harder than it has to be. After all, I understand."

This only puzzles him further, because he doesn't, not a bit, not at all.

"Understand what, exactly?"

She seems tormented by his question, bites her lip so hard he's concerned she might break the delicate skin there, make herself bleed, and he can't imagine what for, what's got her in such a state.

She stares down at her hat as she answers.

"I only mean, I know how you're fixed and you've not got anything to explain to me. There's nothing you... _owe me_."

She's pushing the thing onto her head now, and she looks ridiculous really, her hair spilling out at all angles, pieces of it curling down nearly to her waist.

He is so endeared, so utterly besotted with this woman he can't stand it, but she's irking him a bit now, is not saying anything that makes a lick of sense to him, that might give him some idea of what's going on in her gorgeous, mad mind —so much faster, quicker than his own, always a step or two behind — so that he might try to meet her there, meet her wherever she is and convince her that they could be great companions.

He wants to tell her if nothing else, they could split their time between Downton and Scotland if it came to it, and that he could leave her alone, leave her be in that way, ask nothing but to hold her hand now and again and not even that if it bothered her — though a little part of him that's quite chuffed reminds him that  _she_ has instigated  _that_  both times now, really, but he is putting it out of his mind, focusing instead on how she's going round and round in circles and making no sense at all. He cannot decipher what it is he's arguing against. Only knows that she is doing it again, is deciding for him over again, as she does, without his even getting a say in the matter.

 _One day she will hurt herself jumping to conclusions_ , he thinks bitterly, and he can tell it comes through in his tone.

"Perhaps you could explain it to me then — how I'm fixed."

"Oh, don't be cross, not now, Charles. I'm only saying that I know that you've  _settled_  now, here, with your cottage and your garden and— and your  _baked goods_ , and you're not, that is, you've no obligation and —"

He can't imagine what the buns have done to upset her. Unless she  _does_  somehow know his guilty heart and understands that they are because of her and she does not want that sort of thing from him.

Well, that he can easily hide if it bothers her. He can pretend as he has for the past two decades that he is not in love with her if it makes her uncomfortable, if it might make her stay.

If she is there in the flesh what use does he have for sticky buns from old Mrs. Blythe?

He can explain. Tries.

"Elsie- "

"I know it was presumptuous of me to come here, to Yorkshire at all, but I knew I'd upset you, us, and I suppose — I suppose just wanted to tell you that your friendship has always, well, it has always meant a great deal to me, and I suppose also to wish you well. It's probably silly, but I do still hope that we might be at least civil or something approaching it, even after, well, you know what after —I won't make a fuss when you, you know—"

She gestures helplessly toward the buns, and her obsession with them is starting to drive him mad with its senselessness. Pushing that aside, for now, he tries again.

"Els—"

And she cuts him off  _again_ and he is really beginning to feel hot under the collar — or he would if he was wearing more than a thin sheet wrapped around his waist.

If she would just  _let him speak_.

"I know it's a lot to ask, and I understand if you'd rather I left here and never returned, but Mr. Carson, I haven't deceived you, which, you know, really is more than can be said for some people and—"

"Mrs. Hughes!"

"What?" she shouts back, confusion in her eyes and a tinge of fear that breaks his heart.

He takes a single step toward her. Tries to soften his gaze and his voice, holds out his hand that is not clutching his sheet, tries to lace his expression with even half the affection he feels for her.

"Will you come here, please, woman?"

"What?" she asks again, stumbles toward him as he tugs on her arm, for he does not have the patience for her to catch up with  _him_  now, not after all of that.

"Just—" he looks at her appraisingly, cannot believe his luck that this is really her. He is really standing in his kitchen, having a one-sided row with her, concealing himself in nothing but his flimsy, threadbare sheets, pulled roughly from the bed on which they'd just made love for the  _second_ time.

He could almost laugh.

Cannot believe it is sinking in for him at just this moment that she has come back.

She has come back to Yorkshire, in some capacity or another, if he is understanding her correctly, to try to right things between them.

He doesn't know what it means, how he will convince her, but damn if he lets her talk them both out of this again without at least making a few points of his own, having his argument heard.

"Be still for a moment."

Her eyes widen, but she complies.

He considers her for a moment, looks carefully at her face, her familiar features, the ones he's had memorized for far longer than he would like to admit, long enough that she'd likely give him a good slap for it if she'd known.

But he cannot resist now, for just a moment, cannot resist showing her how dear she is to him, how much he loves her.

Her wide blue eyes stare up at him, and he hates the fear there, the sadness, the brokenness she will not let him fix, but if he does nothing else useful in his life, he can give her this one thing, can show her that she has his heart, for her to do with as she pleases.

With that in mind, he leans in gently, slowly, trying hard not to spook her, to watch the blue of her eyes and make sure they are not wild, not stirred with panic, and places a soft kiss to her brow.

He lingers there for a moment, wants to say a thousand things, wants to ask her if she can possibly know how much he loves her, how wonderful he finds her, how much he cannot bear her leaving, but before he can, she is speaking, saying something shaky and broken and he is startled to pull back and find her features crumpled, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Why?"

She says it so softly that at first, he cannot make it out, cannot understand her at all.

"What -" he chokes on the word 'love,' knows she will not want him to say it, says nothing instead.

She is mumbling against him, her hands on his arms, her chin tucked low and her ridiculous hat still on her head, obscuring his view of her, his ability to see her and hear what she's saying, asking of him.

Suddenly fed up with all the things that keep him from her, he takes it out on her hat, pulls it from her head, tosses it aside.

To hell with it.

And then he can hear her, see her face as she blinks back tears, bites her lip, whispers at him.

"Oh, why would you? How could you do that? Why are you doing this?"

"What do you mean, Elsie? You're not making any sense —" again he is swallowing his endearments, is holding her with one arm and trying hard to get her to meet his gaze, to show him some small mercy, to explain herself even a little so that he might have a fair chance at catching up.

When she does look up, her eyes are still wet, still hurt, but burning too, hot with a familiar fire he's seen unleashed on unlucky maids, and himself a time or two.

It used to thrill him, now he feels nothing but icy dread.

" _I'm_  not making any sense?" she hisses.

And he'll take it. He'll take this because at least she's talking  _to_  him now rather than  _at_  him. At least her ire he is familiar with, knows far better than the fluttering creature she presented moments ago.

"You know what doesn't make sense?"

He looks at her blankly, cannot understand where this is possibly going.

She gives a bitter little laugh, stalks away from him toward the counter.

"Doing— well, doing  _that_  with  _me_ , when you are—" She flutters her hand, casts about, and he hopes she lands on something of substance that will help them both because he's not following her at all.

"When you are otherwise  _engaged_ ," She finishes grandly, picking up the box of buns from his counter and thrusting them forward as if that's supposed to clarify everything.

He feels he could tear his hair out.

"What on  _earth_  are you talking about?!"

She shakes the buns at him and they tumble around violently in their container, and he doesn't even like the damn things, but he's beginning to feel sorry for them.

She lets out a manic, desperate sound, somewhere between a laugh and a cry.

" _Mrs. Blythe_?!"

She says the widow's name like an accusation and he is at his wit's end, feels as though she's experienced some other reality entirely different from his or is perhaps on a plane separate from his own where any of what she's saying makes sense, where buns on his counter warrant such outrage.

"What's she got to do with anything?!" he exclaims, and he's trying very hard not to yell at her, to resist the urge he's suddenly feeling to shake her to her senses.

"Ha!" She huffs, and it's as close to an ugly sound as he can imagine coming from her pretty lips. "I  _saw_  you with her, Mr. Carson. I saw you and I read Beryl's letter and, well, I'm not the village idiot!"

She's making him angry now and he almost wants to contradict her, tell her she's acting very much like it, but then it sinks in what she's saying and suddenly a much darker mood settles over him. Calms his desperation and replaces it with something more sinister.

"You think I'm  _engaged_  in some way to  _Mrs. Blythe_?"

She sniffs, averts her gaze.

"Well, aren't you?"

He ignores her, begins his advance.

"You think I'm engaged to her, and, what,  _tupping_ you?"

She isn't looking at him, is very studiously ignoring his steps toward her, getting very close now.

She shrugs.

And that just about does it.

He strides toward her, closing the distance between them and rips the box from her hands, throws it onto the counter.

"I buy them for  _you_ ," he whispers it, low, close to her ear, so close his lips are brushing against her soft skin and he can feel her tremble, her soft whimpers. "I buy them for  _you._ I go into that shop and buy them because  _you_  sent me away and I have been able to do nothing,  _nothing,_ but think of  _you_ , dream of  _you_ , wish  _you_  were here with me or I was there with  _you_ , wish I could touch  _you_ , feel  _you_ , love  _you_ , and you think I give a damn about Mrs. Blythe? If that's the case, then Elsie Hughes you  _are_  a fool."

He doesn't resist as she pushes against him roughly, creates space between them, looks at him hard in the eye.

He stares right back because, damn it, he's not some cad,  _not anymore, at least_ , and he loves her and he's told her that before, but if this is what it takes — if him standing here in nothing but his bedsheets and telling her  _again_  how much he loves her is what will somehow convince her he's not, would never  _lie_ to her, then she shall have it, because his shame is long gone, he has been aching, bleeding, missing her for too long to not try anything, everything, and if she stomps all over him, his heart so be it.

There's not much left of the pathetic organ anyway thanks to her, she might as well finish him off.

"Are you lying?" she says, finally.

He barely resists rolling his eyes at her.

Still, he hopes he looks as offended as he feels.

"Of course not."

And he doesn't have time to think of much else because after a beat in which he sees doubt in her lovely, clear eyes, her face shifts, her features flicker and then she has fallen against him, has wound her arms around his neck and stunned him so much he's dropped his sheet and she is laughing against him now, a tired, broken version of her magical, tinkling laugh, and he's trying hard to stay cross, but it's hard when she's pressing herself against his chest and neck where she can reach on her tiptoes.

He is struggling now, cannot keep up with her rapidly shifting emotions, and he wants to be elated, he does, for he is standing nude in his kitchen holding his closest friend, his dearest love to his chest, but she has said nothing, and he cannot quite trust her silent embrace, can't bring himself to fall willingly into her arms just yet.

It is his turn to question her.

"Why did you do it?"

He asks her softly, trying hard not to reveal the depth of his pain, the darkness that has winked out his stars for countless nights now.

He can feel her shuddering sigh, the way her arms loosen and her hands drag down his shoulders to his chest as she lowers herself to stand level before him.

He looks down at her in what he hopes is an impassive way, waits for her reply.

* * *

"Because…" She starts, and this is so hard for her, so desperately difficult, she already feels such a fool, so happy and sad and ashamed and confused that she doesn't know where to start, if she's honest, can't imagine how she can convey to him her twisted mind.

But he hasn't run from her yet, hasn't turned away from her in shock or horror, hasn't sent her away. He is standing there planted firmly in his kitchen, allowing her to explain. He is naked as the day he was born, and in other circumstances she might find herself giggly with it, startled and made shy by his unapologetic presentation of his body, but he is vulnerable to her and she finds she cannot laugh, does not even feel compelled to, only wants to respond in kind.

She puts her fingers to the button on her collar, undoes the first.

"Because I — because you deserve, Charles, you deserve so much more than — than me and what I can offer you…"

She continues to unbutton as she speaks.

"I'm not a lady, Charles. I'm not polite or refined and I'm nothing to look at, and beyond all that, I've behaved like a— a vile slut, and you deserve more than that, and your life is  _here_ and mine is  _there_ and I don't see any way around it, don't see how we could possibly be together."

She shrugs her blouse off again, feels nervous and ridiculous and all sorts.

Starts on her skirts before he stills her, puts his large hands over hers and her eyes remained fixed on where their hands touch even as he whispers.

"Elsie,  _my life_  is wherever you are, don't you understand that?"

She can only half-stifle the sob that forms in her throat.

He moves his hands from hers gently and she misses his heat immediately. He's standing straight and tall again, and it should be ludicrous, comical with him naked and her half-dressed again, but it isn't.

She's never felt more serious in all her life.

"Were you lying to me, Elsie, before? Did you change your mind? Or do you love me?"

She takes in his handsome face, his serious features schooled in a way she knows well. He's preparing for the worst. Preparing for everything to come crashing down around him and to take it on the chin, with the grace and elegance she's always admired, respected.

And she can't bear it, she really can't.

She brings her hand to her mouth, a few tears slide out before she can swallow thickly, choke them back, find her voice.

"No," She says, clear and plain, and for a second she can see the pain in his eyes, realizes her mistake, hurries forward.

"I haven't lied. I haven't changed my mind. Of course I love you, but it isn't  _right_ , Charlie. None of this is right. We've done it all wrong."

He seems to consider this, consider her, and she can't stand the scrutiny, so she goes back to unbuttoning her skirts, and she doesn't know what she's doing, what she's thinking because this doesn't counteract her shame at all, does not make her feel any less of a stupid slut than she's been before.

They pool at her feet and she steps out of them, looks up, catches his gaze.

"What are you doing?" he asks and she gestures to him, back at herself.

Bites her lip.

"I don't know," She says finally, honestly.

He looks at her for a long moment before seeming to come to some sort of decision.

"Come here," he says it lightly, holding out his hand, and she follows as he leads her to the parlor, sits her in a large armchair, clearly made with someone of his stature in mind, as she feels very small there.

He looks down at her a moment before holding up his hands.

"Stay, please."

And his request sounds so broken her heart aches.

She nods her assent.

He is only gone a few moments, but that's all the time it takes for her to process what he's said, what he's actually said to her, all that she's misunderstood and she's starting to panic because if it's true, if everything that he's saying is true then this has all been for naught, every sleepless night, every painful day. Oh, she is still a wretch, still wholly undeserving, but she could have revealed that to him from the start, let him reject her outright, spared him, them, some of this pain.

Perhaps convinced herself he maybe, just maybe, would have wanted her anyway.

Her breathing shallows.

But  _no_ , she reminds herself, it had been different even those short weeks ago. He'd been dedicated to Downton when she sent him away, had still been working, planning to until the day he died for all she knew. It was only after she'd sent him away, freed him from her ugly snare that he'd left for something, some _one_.

Someone.

Beryl had said.

When he returns, he is wearing his shorts and his shirt, partway buttoned, and she finds the whole image of him very distracting, but she stomps that down immediately. Feels the familiar wash of shame.

He sits down on a chair opposite hers, just as large and imposing, scrubs his hands over his face, finally looks up at her wearily.

"What are we going to—"

"Beryl said you left for someone."

They speak at the same time, and he is shaking his head, indicating he hasn't heard her.

"I'm sorry, please."

He gestures for her to repeat herself and she does, stares at him expectantly.

"Yes. That's true. I left for you," he says it calmly as if discussing the weather.

She cannot contain the mangled squeak of indignation that escapes her.

"That's impossible. I wasn't even— we weren't—"

He holds up a hand, and she has to remind herself to not get angry, to not accuse, to not interrupt because she has no right, really, to do any of those things. Should rather be on the receiving end. So, she quiets herself. Her penance will come soon enough, she figures, but for now she must try to listen, to hear him, even if she cannot quite believe what he's saying.

"I'm aware of the rumors. As best I can tell, someone, probably some fool hall boy or footman, overheard my conversation with his lordship when I issued my resignation and got 'hold of the wrong end of the stick. I told his lordship I had to leave because of someone, yes, but I didn't see the point in telling him, any of them, that it was you I meant."

She can't fault him there. He was typically a private man, and yet…

"But I'd scorned you…" she says it quietly, with a bitterness aimed toward herself for her stupidity, and watches as he looks down at his hands.

"Yes, but that made,  _makes_ little difference in whether or not I love you," he says, finally, and she feels she can't breathe, feels for all the world as if she's been stabbed, the knife twisting with each insistence that he loves her, loves  _her_ , the least worthy, the most debased.

"But, God,  _why_ , Charles? I don't understand. Can't you see what a—a disappointment I am?"

He pins her with a thunderous look that actually makes her gasp.

"You are the furthest thing from a disappointment I can imagine, Elsie. Whatever would make you say such a foolish thing?"

Elsie closes her eyes, tries to will her pounding heart to slow a bit, to stop trembling tightness in her throat. She thinks of all the reasons she knows her statement to be true.

"Because I rejected Joe once and then married without loving him. Because I lusted after and loved you out of wedlock, without a promise, or even a hint in the beginning, because I tempted you in my dead husband's house, because I would have long before that if given the slightest encouragement, because I was wanton for you then, and," she gulps, "I obviously still am, frequently. Because I am even when you aren't near. Because, God, I'm  _nothing_ , Charles, nothing that you deserve, because I'm a no-good farmgirl with lax morals and I've shamed myself, and you, and my parents and my poor sisters, even back then at the very start, and now, God, poor Glenna and little Beck and their stupid whore of a sister."

Her throat is tight and raw and the sounds she's making are torn, are not her voice at all, and he is at her side before she registers that she's begun crying, is pulling her up and out of her chair and pressing her against his chest as she heaves great, soul-crushing sobs.

She feels she will break with it.

Does.

She is vaguely aware of him whispering, something that sounds like "never," over and over again, but she can't think, can't see straight through the hot tears that are wetting the front of his shirt, the fast breathing she can't seem to slow, the aching tug of sharpness against her ribs and she thinks this might be it, she might actually be dying of shame. She feels as if every ounce of it is raining down upon her now, every shame and sorrow, pouring down, swallowing her up and drowning her, choking her with thick black fingers that have risen from the well and closed around her throat.

She is hot and cold at once, wants to pull him closer, push him away. Feels mad with it all.

"God, I'm stupid, stupid—" she can tell she's saying it, again and again, mingling with his protests, but she can't stop it, can do nothing but hold on to him for dear life as this washes over her.

She is breathing so quickly now she thinks she might be sick, is actually beginning to cough a bit, squirm against him.

"Mr. Carson, I -"

But he is shushing her, making long stroking movements across her back and it is too much and not enough simultaneously, and she feels she can only lean into it, can only let the storm take her even as her throat seizes and clutches painfully, as her heart skips and stutters, as her ragged breathing causes her to jerk and twitch against him.

And it's several long minutes of his gentle comfort against her raging storm before it seems her body can take no more, is too exhausted to rebel further despite the hollow pain that still sits heavy in her chest, and she finally stills, is only gasping very softly against him, using his proffered hanky.

She registers then that they are on the floor. That at some point they sank and he is leaned against the small table he has there in his parlor and she is across his lap, her face in his neck.

He has held her gently as she shattered, is still here holding her now, is not running for the hills, and if it is possible she feels worse than before, ashamed at her outburst, repulsed by her own weakness.

"Christ. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Charles. I'm sorry."

She is apologizing and he is shushing her and both of them can feel hot tears running down their cheeks.


	18. Chapter 18

It isn't long before she is asleep against him, her tremors slowly fading until she is still and he is left holding her, still whispering nonsense assurances against her hair.

A  _whore_. She'd called herself a whore and a slut and who knew what else she was thinking and it is like a rock in his gut, a hot stone bubbling his insides because he cannot imagine anything further from the truth.

She may be no lady, but he is no gentleman. They are well suited in that way. But she has always been elegant, honorable, wise— far wiser than him—full of fire and determination and grit that made her into the wonder she is to him and to all who know her. A marvel, really. Able to run a house like Downton with efficient ease, able to mind her staff, converse with the family, negotiate the dramas of the downstairs, and perhaps most miraculously, to manage his moods as they shifted and changed throughout the day. She may have delighted in vexing him, but it always served its purpose, always brought him down off his high horse just a bit.

And she is beautiful. Her high cheeks and piercing eyes framed by dark hair shot with strands of amber and gold had caught him and pinned him in place from the moment he met her and he hasn't been able to move since, to imagine an existence without her near.

And she thinks that returning his love, his passion, makes her a whore.

Another hot tear slips from his eye down his cheek into her hair, now threaded with silver.

He has not meant to hurt her, to torment her so, feels sick at the mere thought of any harm coming to her at all.

But he knows this isn't just down to him, can tell by the depth of her sobs, the chattering of her teeth as she cried and cried that the wound runs much deeper, much further than just what they've had, done, in the last few months.

And that breaks his heart further because he can do nothing for that except listen, except hold her and listen and attempt to understand and do whatever he can to assure her that to him she is a woman of honor and dignity, and there is nothing wrong with her passion, her drive, her longing.

He does not think it's wrong at all if he's honest. Oh, they should be married of course, but they will be. He has known that somewhere deep for as long as he's known her. He has loved her. And that act, when shared between two people in love as they are (he thinks, hopes, prays), is fine and right and allowed.

Perhaps they are a bit more...active...than strictly necessary, but who can fault them on twenty years of nothing, two decades of restraint.

Not him.

No, she is not a whore any more than he is a cull, and he hopes he can convince her. Perhaps not now, but later, after they are wed, he will spend hours, years, showing her how love can be, how right, how perfect in the eyes of God.

He looks down at her, asleep in his lap and cannot help but cuddle her closer. When she doesn't stir, it occurs to him that they cannot stay like this all evening, that they will both be a tangled mess of tender knots and sore spots, and he makes careful work of beginning to shift, to disentangle and rearrange so that he might get a better grip on her, might lift her.

He has successfully realigned himself, is just getting in a position that might allow him to stand, shifting her tighter against him, when her eyes flutter open. Her voice is scratchy when she speaks.

"Oh, Charlie, I'm sorry. That was foolish. I should go, go back. They'll have expected..."

She says all this, mumbles it really, but her eyelids continue to droop, her head lolls against his shoulder, a few sniffles linger.

She makes half-heartedly to put her arm out, to try to stabilize herself and get up, away, but he shushes her gently and she falls against him again with a quiet exhale that makes him smile just a bit.

He is not a young man, and he is not sure if he will throw his back out or his knees doing so, but he stands, lifts her, hauls her up against him and marvels at how tiny she really is to him, how any twinge in his back is worth the sight of her softened features, her small murmurs as she buries her nose in his throat. Hell, he would take a crick in his spine for weeks just to smell the roses in her hair.

"I should really―dressed," she says, drowsy and half-muffled in his shirt.

"You should really rest," he replies.

She doesn't argue.

He looks appraisingly at his settee, which is rather small and hard and not worthy to hold her, really, in his opinion.

They shall have to buy a new one.

Looking down at her again, curled against him, warm and soft, he contemplates holding her just like this all night, wildly, just for a moment, before he feels an ache in his arms beginning to grow as she relaxes further and further against him.

He looks at the armchair, back at her face, eyes puffy, cheeks blotched with color.

He cannot leave her there either.

"Right then," he whispers to himself, carries her to bed.

When he has her settled there, her shoes carefully removed, her hazy comments shushed, he tucks her in and sits by a while, watching as her brows scrunch together and apart, as her pretty lips give little puffs of air now and then, as she cuddles up against herself and holds his quilt close to her chest, her lovely throat.

He sighs.

He wants her with him like this for the rest of his life. He has gone too long without her, a starving man, a life devoid of love and touch and this sort of gentle reward. He wants this privilege, this right, to watch her, to care for her, to love her so much that it burns in his chest, makes his heart beat double-time against his ribs.

He hopes she wants that too.

He watches her a few more minutes before returning to the parlor and settling himself on the settee.

He sits there, arms leaning on his knees. He scrubs his face a few times trying to tame the emotions fighting within him, he loves her, but he still does not understand, does not want to overstep, does not want to hurt her.

He sighs to himself.

The settee really is far too small, especially to share. The arm of it would push into his neck at an unpleasant angle, and she'd never fit there beside him. She'd have to ― but he can't think it just now. That's not what he should be thinking of in this moment, but he supposes  _that_  comes along with it doesn't it, comes along with the love he feels for her. Still, better to channel it into something else now. Something simple and tangible. Something that will ground him.

He doesn't know what. Hates this about retirement. There's no purpose, no guidebooks or rules to uphold. He is so often at a loss.

He is staring blankly out the parlor window as the sun winds down further, the light turning from clear blue to pink.

He can't stop his mind turning the afternoon over and over, polishing it, examining each detail until it all seems a bit warped, confused.

He relives the patterns of the emotions, the steep drops and sharp turns and he can only hope they are better now. A bit, at least.

He is so ready for this anguish to end and their lives, their real lives, as Elsie and Charlie to begin.

He smiles a bit, his heart swells.  _Charlie_ , she'd called him. Even after all that. Charlie, in that intoxicating accent.

He watches the window a bit longer and lets his heart pound until he cannot sit still anymore, really must find a task, some way to put himself to work, can't take the fluttering  _something_  against his ribs. He must do something, anything.

He will tend the garden.

It is what he does in the afternoons. It is what he does in his retirement. He glances at his pocket watch.

It's gone nearly five o'clock now. She's been sleeping two hours already.

He hopes she'll wake soon, but not enough that he makes any noise creeping about his room. Finding his trousers, a belt.

He dresses quietly in the parlor, startles once at the clinking of his belt, but hears no movement from his room —  _his_ room where  _she_  is sleeping — so he smiles to himself, a silly little grin, and carries on, is out the door in record time.

In the garden, he pokes about here and there for an hour or so until he gets to his real destination, just there at the side of his cottage, beneath his bedroom window.

Roses.

He tends them gently, sweetly, minding their fragile petals and fierce thorns. He finds the most beautiful blooms and cuts them with the garden shears.

He thinks about removing the thorns, then thinks better of it, carries the blooms inside and finds the single vase he happens to own, an heirloom of his mother's and arranges them neatly, gently runs his fingertips through the velvety petals to dislodge any unwelcome guests, is pleased when he finds none.

It is a small offering, only twelve of the great many weighing down the tall, proud bush outside, but he feels it is right, fitting — is glad he does not own more vases.

He is very quiet when he brings them to her. It's darker now, a heavy grey dullness is cast about the room and he can just make out her features between escaped swaths of her hair, which billow out around her and touch her cheeks, her jaw.

She has moved to her back, one arm flung up, the other, he notices with a start, is clutching his pillow as if perhaps she'd been cuddling it before she'd turned.

His heart clenches and he thinks again how much he wants this, them, her there in his bed and him bringing her fresh cut roses and everything exactly as it ought to be.

He still feels a bit unsteadied by her tears, her exclamations that she is somehow sullied or wrong, but they can face that together. He will do his best for her.

Carefully, slowly, serving her as he would the countess, he sets the little arrangement down on the nightstand, watches her a moment longer, then makes his way to the kitchen, there is tidying to do there as well.

* * *

Elsie wakes to a grey room and the smell of roses tugging at the edge of her senses. Through the dim, she can make out the top of a dresser, a chair, a wardrobe.

All unfamiliar.

The first thing she registers is that she's fallen asleep in her corset. She can feel it acutely all of a sudden, digging into her ribs, her breasts, her back ― too tight.

She sits up and quickly strips herself down, as she has before when she's fallen asleep in her things, flings her corset to the side.

Dreadful thing.

Yawning, she starts to blink, come into herself a bit more. She wonders why she is not afraid in this unfamiliar place.

Where on Earth is she?

Her eyes focus on the arrangement of roses on the table.

Even in her sleepy haze that doesn't seem right. The flowers seem out of place somehow among the rest of the decor. Her brain feels fuzzy and dull and she doesn't think she can puzzle it all out just now so she cuddles into the blankets, breathes in the heady scent of roses and something else, something familiar and better and right and…

_Oh my god._

Slowly, it all floods back to her. The way she'd— _they'd_ —done what they'd done, the row in the kitchen, the awful, bone-shaking sobbing, the rawness of her throat, the way her eyes still feel swollen and itchy.

The way he said he  _loves_  her,  _only_  her.

She sighs.

She remembers.

There isn't much she can do about it now, she supposes. She does feel a pinprick of shame, just there in the hollow of her heart, where she tucks dark things away. She feels just a bit like an overgrown child, a helpless lamb for coming apart as she did, for admitting what she has.

But it has also helped, in a way, and she feels oddly calm. She has said it now, said it to someone other than the damp front of Glenna's dress. It has been like a storm finally breaking after weeks of thunder and it has beat down on them both now, but he has not set her aside.

Still, he is not here with her either.

This thought startles her mind into action, into old familiar patterns of worrying about him, for him, where he is, what he's doing, if he's alright, if she can help.

She gets up quickly and quietly, remembers she's in nothing but her shift and knickers, and it stops her for the barest moment before she's barreling on — what does it matter now anyway?

The thought is both painful and liberating as it shoots through her mind.

She can do nothing to change what she's done, nothing to turn her from a damaged thing into something respectable, but perhaps she does not need to, perhaps the damage is worth dredging up to be with him.

If he will have her.

She pads quietly into the hall, peeks around the corner.

The parlor is dark and quiet, but there is soft, yellow light coming from the kitchen.

When she sees him there, he's humming to himself, some old tune about a  _smoothing iron_  of all things, and folding a tea towel into a neat little square, placing it back in the basket she'd carried from Downton.

He's dressed, but his hair is still a bit wild, curling about his nape and across his forehead.

_He'll need it cut soon._

And she suddenly feels overcome with affection for him, this man whose patterns she has memorized, whose every gesture, every look, she knows. She feels foolish suddenly for doubting him, for letting her own fears get in the way.

She watches with interest as he picks up the box of buns, makes to set it in the basket, sets them aside again with a sigh, then looks back and forth between the two objects as if solving the world's problems.

His brows are a tense line and his mouth is set in a little frown and he puts the buns in the basket again only to draw them out once more.

She is almost laughing now. Almost. Can  _almost_  laugh at the ludicrousness of their whole situation and how it really doesn't matter at all because what it comes down to is this: it's him.

It's him.

And for her, it will always be him.

The wounds will be there, and she will tend them, but in this moment, she knows exactly what she wants.

So carefully, quietly, she comes up behind him as she did that first night in her room, puts her arms around his middle as far as they will go and nuzzles into his back, smiles when she both hears and feels his contented sigh.

He puts his hands over hers, rubs his palms along her arms until he's grasping her hands and wrists, turning and pulling her into an embrace.

She feels her cheeks might crack with the silly grin she wears when he kisses the crown of her head, whispers so softly.

"Well, hello there."

"Hello," soft, quiet, whispered into his shirt. "Thank you for my flowers."

She starts just a bit at her own words, eyes going wide, still talks into his chest.

"I mean, I shouldn't assume, but they're lovely and— "

"Hush." He lays a gentle hand on her neck, just there beneath her hair at the nape of her neck. "Of course they're for you. Anything and everything I have is for you Elsie, truly. Including me, if you want me."

She closes her eyes and she feels giddy and sad all at once, her emotions mixing and mingling to the point she feels drained, as if nothing makes sense.

Except him. This. His arms around her in a very nice little kitchen and their hearts beating in time.

 _ **If**_   _she wants him. Of all the daft ideas._

"Alright," she says finally.

He clears his throat slightly, and she's relieved he doesn't press.

"Are you?" he says instead. "Alright, that is?"

She considers where she is at this exact moment. Considers him. Them.

No, she isn't, but she thinks she will be, can feel something in her bones shifting and turning, changing.

"I will be."

"Good. I'm glad. I — I couldn't bear it if you weren't. If  _we_ weren't."

She squeezes him tighter, chuckling when he makes an exaggerated groan that ends in his own light laughter. He squeezes her back and she feels safer than she's ever felt.

"Can we start over?" he whispers, and that makes her guffaw.

"Oh, Charlie, I don't think I have the energy for starting over, but I'll tell you what―" She looks up at him, gazes into his dark eyes, clear but slightly worried, a tiny crinkle between his prominent brows, and feels overwhelmed by the rush of warmth and affection that bolts through her. "―we can move forward," she finishes, loves the way he smiles, a true smile, big and silly and showing his teeth, the way he gathers her up against him, hugging her so fiercely he lifts her off the ground and she giggles, actually giggles before swatting him lightly on the shoulder.

"Put me down for heaven's sake, you'll put out your back!"

He lets her slide against him down to the floor and she tries not to shiver, not to let on how much she adores him, wants him.

She cocks a brow when he puffs his chest, gives her a haughty look.

"I suppose you don't remember how you got into our bed then, do you?"

She feels a flush rise on her chest and a little gasp escapes her and the way he is looking at her strangely tells her he has no idea what he's said, what he's just implied.

"I—no," she says, feeling flustered and silly.

"Well, let's just say my back is in perfect condition. Fit as a fiddle. Strong as an ox."

He's sounding very pompous now, very proud of himself, and she can't resist the habit — she rolls her eyes, but this time she has the freedom to follow it with another hug, to nestle herself against him and breathe him in.

"There now," he says, resting his hands on her back again, running them up and down her sides. "You're sure you're alright?"

She can feel tears welling in her eyes again, but they are not the breaking, desolate, shameful sort, they're something else, something like relief, and she nods against him.

"Right now? Better than," she whispers.

* * *

He walks her back to the house, and there's a tense moment where neither quite knows what to say or do.

She's holding her basket with the buns inside (finally, decided,  _finally_ ) and he's fidgeting with his waistcoat, his sleeves.

Just when she thinks she cannot take it and will have to say  _something,_ if only to break the awkward silence, he clears his throat, looks down his nose at her.

"Mrs. Hughes, would you think it terribly forward of me to ask to see you again tomorrow?"

Of all the things they've done together recently, this is perhaps the  _least_  forward, she thinks.

Her face must bear some semblance of the thought because he hurries on.

"Not for...anything  _in particular_. It's just that there's something, an idea I've had, and I'd very much like your opinion on it."

 _Oh_.

Of course.

Of course, he wants her opinion on some trivial household matter or goings on in the village. They have only a very fragile understanding. There is love in their actions, that much is sure, but beyond that, she couldn't possibly guess.

All she knows is that she very much  _wants_ to see him again and so she will. She won't think too very much about it.

"Alright then. Anywhere in particular?"

He seems to hesitate, casts a glance behind him and then back toward her and then up at the abbey.

She raises a brow.

"Would you want to take tea with me at the bakery?" He talks over the breath she sucks in through her teeth. "Only, I don't think the Arms is the right spot and it doesn't feel quite right at the cottage either."

He looks at her pleadingly.

"There's nothing there. I swear it."

And she feels a bit stupid all over again, like a silly old cow. Besides, she must get used to whatever this is between them, and possessiveness was not necessarily in the cards.

He loves her, she loves him, but possess?

She isn't sure.

So, she nods.

"Yes, alright then. The bakery. What time?"

"Is eleven too early?"

She doesn't resist rolling her eyes this time.

"You worked alongside me for twenty-some years, we both rose before dawn and you think  _eleven_  will be too early?"

He smiles sheepishly, his lips pulling into a crooked smile and she's absolutely disarmed.

She rises up on her toes with a twist of courage and pecks a light kiss on his cheek.

"Now be off with you before anyone sees us carrying on out here."

She doesn't stop to see his face, doesn't think she can without throwing herself into his arms, so she turns on her heel, and rushes through the door, closes it and leans against it heavily. Familiarity. The sounds and scent and sight of Downton enough to ground her slightly, remind her who she is and where she is. She's never thought of it before now, but it does give her a slight sensation of  _home_. So here, in this shadow, this shade of  _home_ she seeks a moment's peace, that's all she needs ― just a moment to sort her thoughts.

She breathes in, out.

"Remind me to never send you on an errand I want done quickly."

Elsie startles, almost drops the basket, sees Beryl standing there in the hall and starts to blush, but plows through it, willing herself to stand tall, unashamed.

"Oh, excuse me, I wasn't aware there was anything else on my schedule for the day," she says to Beryl, removing her coat and draping it over one arm, but keeping her hat, for she has no idea what state her hair's in.

"Well, perhaps not, but you've been gone nearly half the day. What if I needed my basket?"

Elsie thrusts it out toward her.

"Here it is."

Beryl snatches it from her hands and scuttles into the servant's hall, Elsie not far behind.

Beryl sets to take out the linens when she pulls out a small box.

"What's this then?" she asks, sounding genuinely confused.

"Oh," Elsie panics for just a minute, can feel her heart beating in her throat, but then she remembers they're just buns. It's all innocent. Well,  _mostly_. She doesn't have to lie, at least.

"Mr. Carson decided he didn't like those. He said I could bring them back as a treat for...us."

Beryl scoffs as she tosses them to the side and Elsie just barely stops herself from crazily lunging after them.

"Well, I could have told him that he didn't like them. No one here likes those sickly sweet things except…."

Her eyes shoot up to meet Elsie's, who is determinedly looking down at her coat, picking off invisible lint.

"You," Beryl finishes slowly.

There is another tense moment where it seems that something is being decided.

Elsie finally meets Beryl's eyes and Beryl watches her closely for a moment before affecting an air of nonchalance, thrusting the box toward Elsie.

"As I said, no one likes them, but you. Enjoy."

Elsie smiles at Beryl, cannot help it, and Beryl smirks in response, goes back to her kitchen and waves Elsie toward the stairs.

"Go on. Before I change my mind and decide to interrogate you. Go."

Elsie does not wait, takes her coat and her buns and trots up to her room with an unfamiliar buzzing in her chest.

* * *

_Go before anyone sees us._

_What the hell did that mean?_

Oh, that wasn't her exact wording, but she'd said something to that effect.

He looks at his pocket watch.

Maybe it means she's not coming. Maybe it means she's abandoned him again.

He doesn't think he can take that.

He takes a swallow of his tea, still too hot, and doesn't mind the way it scalds, it keeps any emotion from showing on his face. Keeps his focus elsewhere for the moment.

He fiddles with the other pocket in his waistcoat.

There are a few people milling about, but he is the lone patron sitting and taking tea and it's all starting to feel too familiar.

"Sorry!  _Sorry_. Beryl asked me to drop a few things off at the post and the line was longer than I anticipated. I hope you haven't been waiting long?"

He couldn't care less how long he's waited when she's striding toward him, shedding her summer coat. He stares at her rather more openly than he should as he rises to pull out her chair ― too late for the coat.

"No, no. Not at all."

He sits across from her, can hardly contain his smile.

"I'm happy to see you. You look very...well...this morning."

She chuckles and waves him away, but he can see the blush staining her cheeks.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Carson," she says, but it's not as sharp as it would have been before, is a little more breathless, said with a shy smile, delivered in a way that makes his breath catch.

"Your guest is wise, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Blythe says as she sets down their plates ― a scone for him, a bun for Elsie, but she sets it down all backward, wrong-way-'round.

"Here you are, Mr. Carson. I know how you enjoy one of my sweets this time of day."

And he knows she doesn't mean anything by it, but he catches the way Elsie's lips purse, her gaze narrows.

"Ah, yes, thank you, Mrs. Blythe," he says because he doesn't want to be rude, but it is apparently the wrong thing as Elsie's gaze turns to him. He sees her eyes flicker, her nostrils flare.

Yes, definitely wrong.

"Actually," Elsie says, looking up at Mrs. Blythe with an expression that could almost be pleasant if you didn't know Elsie very well, if you couldn't tell her features were laced with venom.

He's seen this look before.

"You'll find that the bun is for me. It turns out, Mr. Carson doesn't fancy your  _sweets_  very much at all."

She says it all very congenially, every word dripping with politeness, etiquette.

Mrs. Blythe blinks once, looks between Elsie and himself, and smiles a bit strangely.

Elsie smiles back, touches the toe of her shoe to his beneath the table.

Charles is lost now, has no idea what's going on.

He smiles hopefully at the both of them and prays it will be over soon.

"I see," Mrs. Blythe says, with the same almost too-friendly tone Elsie has been employing. "My mistake. Do  _enjoy_."

She swaps their plates and Elsie's clatters a bit before her, but she is smiling now, a cheeky little grin that says she's proud of herself, and he doesn't understand why, but he's proud too, nudges her toe back to prove it.

This seems to start  _his_  Elsie back into focus because she's blushing again now, looking down at her bun and not meeting his eyes.

He clears his throat, nudges her toe again until she looks up.

" _Nothing_ ," he mouths, and she gives him a weak smile.

He pats his waistcoat again and they eat their treats and drink their tea in silence.

* * *

It is beginning to get painful now, the silence.

_Why can it not be easy?_

She has barely looked up from her plate, which is absurd because it is now empty.

He should never have suggested the damn bakery. He's ruined everything, he's sure of it. She won't even look at him now.

He quells the urge he feels to grab her hand or something else insane in a public place ― he just needs to be assured, of her, of them, of everything.

The door opens again as another patron enters the shop and the cool breeze that sweeps through feels like bliss on his flushed skin, the nervous dampness on his brow.

That's it, of course it is.

"Mrs. Hughes―" he starts, and so lost is she in her own thoughts that she jumps a bit, looks up at him slightly stern, and he loves it, loves that look, loves her so very much. "I have usurped quite a lot of your time already, I know, but I wondered if a stroll through the grounds might appeal to you at all? With me, that is."

He feels stupid for clarifying, but he's already done it so there's nothing for it now.

"Only it seems a pity to waste the last of the mild weather cooped up."

She smiles at him then, a pretty, small smile that just quirks the edges of her pink lips.

He thinks dazedly that he wants to know all her smiles by heart, then kicks himself for being such a besotted old fool.

He looks at her hopefully instead of saying something mad like that right here in public.

"Alright then," she says, "a stroll."

And he can't contain his smile as he pulls out her chair, helps her with her coat ― careful not to touch― and they head for the door side by side.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of Past Abuse

She feels a little shiver run through her at the sensation of his hand hovering just above her lower back. She knows he'd never touch her like that in public, has really never touched her like that period, but the idea that he might, the heat of his hand as it rests just above the fabric of her summer dress, makes her tingle, causes her to pull her lower lip between her teeth.

She doesn't know what he's thought of her little display, the immediate betrayal of her promise to herself that she would not be possessive, would not make a scene. He had nudged the toe of her shoe after, had mouthed something to her that she couldn't make out and she isn't sure what to make of any of that, doesn't know if it was encouragement or scorn.

She makes a frustrated little noise to herself as she walks along beside him, hardly paying attention to where they are going. She is growing weary of this extended exercise in uncertainty, starting to wonder if it might be better to say straight-forward how she feels and what she wants and damn the rest. But she has already behaved so reprehensibly, has sullied whatever tender thing has grown between them over the years, and she isn't sure it could survive her brashness too, on top of everything.

She doesn't notice the way he's looking at her sideways, questioning, wondering, misses entirely his proffered arm which he slowly lowers.

If only it weren't so very wrong for a woman to be clear and in command in matters such as these. If only this had the same familiar comforts of her position where she felt they were equals, where she never feared what was simmering between them, when she fancied herself a worthy match. It's all been muddled now by emotions and distance and buried desires that have run wild. She wishes so very much that she could face him squarely, tell him she wants him for her husband and come what may.

Even if he laughed in her face, at least she would know. At least everything would be clear again. At least she could surrender herself to the shame that's been trying to choke her since this dismal circumstance began.

And then, of course, there was  _Mrs. Emily Blythe_  and her kittenish smile at him and her assertion that he  _liked her treats_  and Elsie couldn't help herself. She had seen red, had seen this nervy woman with her fluttering lashes and her eyes only for him and she'd had to act, impropriety be damned.

She'd taken it well enough, the sly cat, had only just clattered Elsie's dish, and she'd had a moment to feel proud of herself before she thought again how nothing between herself and Charlie is sure and he ushered her quickly from the bakery.

She thinks she has probably embarrassed him. He hasn't said a word since they left the shop, and looking up now, she can see they are headed toward the lake.

She chances a brief look in his direction, just under the brim of her hat, and wonders if he knows of her love for this place in particular, how cleansing she finds it, how calming.

She finds herself wishing she could take his hand or his arm but feels the familiar sinking at not knowing if it's allowed.

Her frustration crouches and huddles, claws at her throat, forms a tight ball in her chest that keeps her from opening her mouth lest she scream.

When they reach the little dock, she is surprised that he stops, folds his hands behind his back, and they both look out at the sun peeking from between the dense grey clouds over the horizon.

"I love this spot," he says, and the timbre of his voice after so many moments of tense silence gives her a little start.

She looks up at his profile, studies the sharp angles of his brow, his jaw, his prominent nose, looks back toward the lake and down at the water, where she can see her own distorted figure reflected back to her in its murky depths. She thinks she's never seen a more accurate reflection of herself than the tremoring lines and colors dancing on the surface of the lake.

"Me too," she says quietly.

They stand there a while before he turns toward her slightly.

"There's something I'd like to ask you."

She looks up at him sideways, her heart pounding suddenly for no reason.

"Yes, what is it?"

He looks at her strangely for a moment, his eyes boring into hers.

"Do you like Downton? I mean, do you find it pleasant?"

Her head tilts, her heart calms, slightly, but this is still an odd question, one she's never considered, in all honesty. Downton has always been simple to her, a place where she worked for herself and her sisters. Does she like it? She doesn't know.

"I think it's pleasant enough, yes, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

"It's only, I've wondered about how much time we might spend here."

And her heart is off again, a little bolt going through her, but she doesn't understand, he's not making any sense, there with his hands tucked behind his back, his stance straight and proper as ever.

Surely he doesn't mean as they are now, how often she will  _visit_  him. Surely he knows she couldn't stay with him when they are like  _this_. Whatever this is.

She lifts her skirts a tiny bit so they don't snag on the dock (sometimes she forgets, forgets that times are changing and hemlines are shorter and that everything is different now) as she faces him slightly, tries to see what he's getting at.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Hmm? Only, one never knows, does one?"

She has a feeling she's missing some crucial bit of the conversation, but she's too emotionally spent to go 'round with him today so she merely nods, turns back toward the edge of the dock and takes a tiny step forward to see a bit more of herself in the water.

They are quiet and she's toed just close enough to the edge that she's feeling a bit dangerous and silly, is just leaning upon the toe of her shoe when his voice sounds behind her.

"I want to marry you," he says and it's loud and clear and it sweeps her right off her feet.

"What?" she says and it's a screech as she loses her balance, totters directly toward the water, but he has caught her there around her waist, has hauled her back up against him and her heart is hammering now, blood rushing through her ears as he turns her, pats at her frantically in nonsensical places like her hat and her hip.

"Are you alright?"

"Am I- am I  _alright_?" she gasps, tries to even her breathing, rests her forehead on his chest. "Mr. Carson, I wouldn't even begin to know how to answer that."

"Say you'll marry me, Elsie," he says again, low and rumbling and she can feel it through his chest and hers and she's terribly confused, so caught off-guard.

"Mr. Carson, please, you don't have to- I understand if-"

He sets her away from him just slightly, but does not let go of her elbows, slides his hands down to her wrists, her hands.

"No," he says, "I don't think you do understand. Mrs. Hughes,  _Elsie_ , I want to marry you, more than anything, and I should have  _told_  you. I should have told you so long ago."

He says it clearly though his voice is laced with emotion and everything in her tells her that this can't be real, can't be right, can't be happening.

"But you can't mean that Charles, you can't want-  _why_  would you want  _me_? I- I-"

"Oh, Elsie."

* * *

He says her name lowly, reverently as he feels. He wants to convince her. Show her somehow that for him it has always been this, always been him and her ― inevitable.

He wants to tell her of dark nights with no stars, of mistakes realized too late, of snipping puppeteer's strings.

Doesn't say any of that.

Instead, he gathers her closer.

He feels her moment of hesitation before she sighs, leans into him, burrows her nose into his chest and breathes hot against him there, can feel the hard plane of her corset pressed against his middle, and he's reminded again of all the ways in which she's bound, wonders if he can help, if it is time to loosen the ties finally, time to stop holding back.

He can feel the band of gold in his pocket pushed into him by her weight against him there.

"Elsie, I'm not asking you because I feel obliged, I'm asking you because it has been my dearest wish for many years and I don't want to miss it with you."

"M-miss what, exactly?"

She is looking at him with her clear blue eyes and she looks wary, but she isn't running, she isn't protesting and that alone is enough to make him smile.

"Anything. Another moment. I don't want to spend any more time waiting, wondering, wishing, I want it to be us, Elsie. I want every second you'll allow me. I want to be your  _husband_  and I want you for my  _wife_."

He is quiet and she is looking at him, simply staring and her eyes are wide and round and he wants to kiss her cheek, wants to brush his fingers across that high plane and make her shiver, but he is afraid to move, to spook her.

He waits.

"I'm not convinced I can be hearing this right?" she says, and it's trembling and charming and he can see the tears in her eyes now.

He sets her away from him. Looks at her squarely.

Right then, if she needs convincing, this should do it.

Carefully, he starts to bend, and automatically her hands shoot out, try to stop him.

"Oh, Mr. Carson, no, your suit, your knees, you shouldn't-"

He looks up at her with a raised brow until she quiets, then gets back to work.

His fingers dig in the pocket of his waistcoat, he fishes out the tiny band, begins to speak.

"Elsie Hughes, will you please,  _please_  put an old man out of his misery and do him the great honor of becoming his wife?"

He holds the ring out to her and watches carefully as her eyes flicker from his face down to the band. Tears are beginning to slip down her cheeks now, but they are soft and slow, and her mouth is pursed in a tiny smile that gives him butterflies.

"Well," she says finally, and it's breathy and fluttering and beautiful and he looks up at her hopefully.

The smile on her face is both radiant and hesitant and she is so familiar to him like this, toying with the edges of their boundaries, plucking at taut strings in a way that was always dangerous before, a way that always brought shame and trepidation, but now only brings a giddy joy they both seem to feel.

"That depends, of course," she continues, "on the old man in question."

He can't help but mirror her smile as she bends toward him, and even in her corset she seems freer, as if her movement is no longer hindered every second by some invisible force, and her hand finds his cheek, strokes there, and he feels as if he will burst with pride, with love for her.

"What would you say if the old codger was me?"

He watches as she pretends to think, twists her mouth and looks toward the heavens, then back at him and her smile is brilliant, filled with a happiness he isn't sure she's ever seen on her before this moment, one he is sure is reflected in his own eyes.

"I would say yes, Charlie."

"Yes?" he asks, and he can't believe it, can feel elation bubbling up within him.

"Yes."

And he rises up as quick as his knees allow to throw his arms around her, crush her in the embrace he has been holding back since their awkward departure yesterday afternoon, and he cannot help but mimic her light laugh as he lifts her up off the ground and twirls them once until his back is to the water and she is in front of him, gorgeous as ever with the sweet autumn sun on her face.

* * *

They sit there on the dock for a while.

She convinces him to remove socks and shoes (ignores the way his breath catches when she removes her stockings) and their toes are dangling in the lake.

She doesn't know what to think. She's happy, deliriously so, but she still feels a little pit in her stomach, a gnawing ache she can't place.

She watches their reflections side by side and how they seem to blur and blend until they are almost one entity there shining in the water.

She leans her head on his shoulder and basks in knowing it's allowed.

It pushes her hat at a funny angle, but it's allowed.

"I love you," he says, and she's glad he cannot see her silly smile behind her hat.

She puts her hand in his.

"What happens now, Charlie?"

He rubs his thumb over her skin and she still feels a bit nervous, a bit fluttery and silly, but she's telling herself to stay calm. This is him, it's him. It's what she wants and she shouldn't run now, no matter how nervous she's feeling, no matter how unsteady.

His voice is low when he speaks.

"What would you think about visiting Mr. Travis today?"

She barely refrains from gasping.  _Today?_

There's still so much to consider. She's accepted him, of course she has, but none of it seems quite real to her at the moment.

It's a beautiful promise, but their situation remains much the same. What of the farm? What of Glenna and Beck and her life in Scotland? What of his cottage? His dedication to Downton? His love for the family?

He's only just asked her if she  _likes_  Downton and she hasn't known what to say.

She tries hard not to see this all as insurmountable, to focus on the way his body feels pressed to hers, on how much she wants to be his and to have him as hers.

Her heart is beating wildly and she knows she's been quiet too long, can feel he's starting to prickle too, can tell in the same way she's always been able to that his mood is shifting.

He wants to see Mr. Travis to declare their intention to marry, but she can't do that just yet.

She squeezes his hand, turns it over until it rests open-palmed on his thigh and she traces the lines there, looks down at the way they span his skin and intersect before branching off in new directions.

"What about Scotland?"

She says it and it's little cost to her now, after all they've been through. What can possibly be said, what argument could they possibly have now that it's all been laid out, brought to light.

She doesn't feel like fighting anyway.

She feels him take a deep breath, watches as he catches her fingers and releases them again, allowing her to continue her absent play there along his hand and wrist.

"What would you like to do?"

She closes her eyes instead of rolling them.

 _What would she like to do._ If only it were that simple.

"I don't know, Charlie. I want to be with you. I want to live side by side, but I've responsibilities in Scotland — my sisters, the farm. Our understanding may be better now, but it doesn't change anything, not really."

She can feel him stiffen and she hurries to trace his fingers, to press her palm against his and stretch their hands against each other before lacing their fingers together, squeezing.

"Elsie," he sighs, "I will go anywhere you want to go. I had wondered about splitting our time between the two, of course, but I leave it to you."

And it's so different, so utterly extraordinary that he should feel this way, that he should want to compromise with her, let her have her way entirely, if she wants it. She squeezes his hand harder, wondering for the first time if perhaps this all has changed him as much as it has her. It is almost enough to still the nervous crawling in her stomach, behind her ribs. Certainly quiets it a bit.

She doesn't know what she wants, by and large. Doesn't know what they'll do about the farm or the cottage or Glenna or Mrs. Patmore or any of it, but she does know she wants to do it together.

"Mr. Carson?"

"Yes, love?"

Her heart skips when he calls her that and she can't help the small smile that springs up on her lips.

"Shall we visit Mr. Travis?"

She tries to calm her pounding heart enough to hear the reverend, to take in any information at all, but she's feeling a bit short of breath and all her efforts are focused on keeping that in check, in stopping herself from springing up and— and— she doesn't know what, only it  _can't_ happen and she  _must_ stay still.

Charles glances over at her a few times and she can see the confusion on his brow. She wishes she could explain it to him, could tell him this has nothing to do with  _him_  and everything to do with  _her_  and whatever deficiency she has that's keeping her from relaxing fully into this.

"The banns will also have to be read in Scotland, of course," Mr. Travis nods toward her and she tries to smile.

"But I have no qualms about posting them here as well. Have you planned where the ceremony might be?"

She can feel Charles looking at her and she tries to relax, tries to lower her shoulders from her ears.

"We haven't decided yet," she whispers and she can't imagine where her voice has gone, what's happening to her.

"Very well then. I don't mind telling you I'd be honored to perform it here if you so choose. You've both been fine members of my congregation for many years and I give you both my sincerest congratulations."

Charles thanks him for the both of them and then they are striding out of the church, and she knows she's walking quickly, and he's having no trouble keeping up, but he does touch her arm once they've walked a ways, once she's panting just a bit and the sun seems too bright and she feels a bit faint.

"Elsie, what's wrong? Is this not what you want? Do you not want this?"

"No!" she exclaims because it's exactly what she wants, she doesn't know what's wrong with her, she can't think, hates the prickly feeling in her skin, her insides.

"I see," he says and he's looking down at his shoes and she realizes she's mucked it up again.

"No, Charles, I mean 'no,' it's not not what I want," she shakes her head against the nonsensicalness.

"What I mean is, I want this. Very much."

She puts his hand on her arm and he covers it with his own.

He gives her a desperate look and she brushes it off, threads her arm through his and urges him to walk with her.

They walk for a while before he speaks again and she's grateful for the pause, for the chance to collect her thoughts and breathe deeply — well, as deeply as she can in her corset.

"Will you tell Mr. and Mrs. Scott?"

"Hm? Oh, of course. I should telegram. She'll kill me if she thinks I waited more than a moment to tell her news like this."

"Good news," he says, and it's not a question, sounds more like an assurance. Whether it's for her or him, she can't tell.

"Good news," she echoes and wills the heavy feeling in her stomach to dissipate.

* * *

The next two weeks are a test of all sorts of wills: the will not to run away in the night, the will not to deepen their kisses when he looks so dashing with his hair mussed or his tie askew, the will not to scream every time she's asked about the bloody ceremony or reception lunch.

They've decided on Downton for the ceremony. Glenna will come, Arthur will tend the farm. Beryl will not let her alone for a half-second about menus and guests and who knows what else.

As far as Elsie is concerned they can sod it all.

The nervous feeling has only grown and she's extremely weary of it, sick of the trembling creature she's become, unsure of herself and cruel. She's cross with him, with Beryl, with anyone unlucky enough to get too close.

Mostly she's cross with herself.

Why can she not be  _normal_ , feel  _correctly_ , why can her anxiety not morph into excitement? Why can she not will it to be so?

Perhaps because her will is entirely exerted on not losing whatever fragile grip it is she has on herself in this moment.

It isn't even that she's unsure. She knows. She knows she wants Charles. She wants Charles and their life and their banter and their love.

She loves him so much it scares her.

She wonders constantly about what will happen. What if this feeling lasts forever? What if she was  _has good reason_ not to be sure of herself? What if she hurts him in some way? What if she's not enough? What if Glenna can't manage Beck without her anymore? What if he wants to stay here and she never sees her baby sister again? What if he rejects Becky? What if he doesn't want to meet her? What if none of this can be trusted?

And it's so unlike her to waste time worrying about what-ifs, but here she is, and it annoys her to no end.

She sighs, clenches and unclenches her fingers.

They've been together tonight.

Not  _together_. They've been trying to abstain from  _all that_ , which is difficult in an entirely different way and does nothing to ease her frazzled nerves.

No, they've had a chat in his sitting room, sipping fine whiskey and chatting, and the whiskey had done just enough to ease her nerves that she'd slipped the bottle into her basket before leaving.

Oh, it's dishonest, but if they are really going through with this, what's his and what's hers will no longer be so clearly delineated and she comforts herself with that.

Besides, it is her intention only to comfort herself with a wee dram before bed. Just a sip or two and then she'll go up to bed and do her best to avoid Beryl and Anna and Glenna who's arriving tomorrow.

Nudging open the back door, she peeks in before she swings it in fully. The hall is dim. She can see a light under Mr. Barrow's door and breathes a sigh of relief that he wouldn't bother her about anything even if he saw her.

She takes the whiskey to her room, pours a glass and thinks of her mother.

She thinks of pulled hair and shouting, and necks cricked back for faces to be screamed into. She thinks of belt buckles and hairbrushes and switches off the tree, and taking the whacks for herself and then for poor Beck.

She thinks of her mother's nonsense words over Becky, of her shaking and clawing and dunking in the loch and the way she'd caught her one day in the dead of winter, after Glenna had married and gone on, dragging Beck by her little hand through the snow, her bare feet nearly blue by the time Elsie had caught up.

The next glass shows her her father.

His rough hands pushing plates from the table in a fit of rage, shouts for Elsie and Glenna to clean it up, his finger under Beck's chin, his kiss of her nose, the way Glenna would keep Elsie back from pulling Beck away from him.

She sees him disappearing for weeks at a time, rushing toward him when he'd stagger up the lane only to be ignored, pushed aside.

She remembers pulling him from taverns when she and Glenna were old enough to hold him between them, when he'd run out of money or tried to grope the barmaid.

She remembers smoke so thick from his endless cigarettes that they'd all be coughing before the night was through.

She downs her third glass toasting them both and the mess they've made her.

"I hope you're in hell," she spits after her fourth. "You've ruined me for him. For anyone. You've made me what I am."

She loses count after that, just keeps going until the pain and the disappointment and the never-ending doubt blends together and she's asleep, dreaming of Becky's smile on a summer day.

* * *

There is something terribly wrong, he knows.

Has seen her slip his bottle into her basket and stride off toward the abbey without a second glance. She's rebuffed his offer for company more times than he could count over the last two weeks. When they have been together she's been jittery and jumpy and alternately affectionate and aloof and he cannot keep up, has no idea what to do.

He knows Glenna will come in the morning, she's told him that, and he wonders if he can beat Elsie to the station, if he can get there first and speak to Glenna as he needs to.

He loves Elsie with his whole heart, but he does not know this hurt, does not know what to do with it or how to heal it.

She insists it is not about him, so he thinks it's probably time he knew exactly what it's about.

* * *

In the end, Elsie doesn't even show up to the platform so it's just as well he's there, for someone should be, surely, to greet Glenna when she arrives.

He worries for a long while, but when he sees her and tells her of the whiskey and Elsie's determined steps into the night, Glenna tells him he has nothing to worry over. She doesn't elaborate, so he lets it go, has much more pressing issues to ask.

She accompanies him to his cottage and it feels rather strange but he is engaged and she is married and this is an emergency.

They no more than take their seats before he's off.

"There's something wrong with Elsie."

He watches as Glenna's gold eyes regard him and they are the coldest he's ever seen, calculating, sizing him up.

"What makes you say that?" she says, and her lilt is so familiar his heart skips a beat. He wants Elsie back, his Elsie. So if that means he must spill a few secrets to do so, must go behind her back and plot, then that's what shall be because he can't stand this, can't stand to see her so broken.

He clears his throat, swallows his reservations about discussing such matters openly, plows on.

"She's been acting very strangely since, well, since before the engagement even, really. She's jumpy, on edge, anxious, and there seems to be nothing I can say to calm her, to put her at ease. You must know I would  _never_ , couldn't bear the thought of ever trapping her in something she doesn't want, but I am at a loss, Mrs. Scott. I've no idea what to do for her or what's even amiss."

Glenna is still regarding him in that almost alarming way, it's cutting, and he gets the feeling that much like his fiancée, this woman can see right through others.

Well, let her look then, perhaps she can discern what he's done to set this all off.

He is surprised when Glenna looks down at her hands, takes a deep breath that  _almost_  shudders before she looks at him again.

"Tell me, Mr. Carson. What do you know of Scotland?"

An hour passes where Glenna tells him bits of their childhood, some stories so awful his stomach actually churns and he feels he will be sick. He knows by the end of it that these Hughes women are far stronger than he, than anyone he knows, anyone he can even think of readily.

He could never have endured.

"It didn't help we were girls, of course. Not much use are girls on the farm. They wanted boys."

He nods his head and feels tears prick his eyes. Three precious little girls unloved, treated so cruelly and no one to help. No one to save them. Only each other.

He does not want to cry as it feels somehow disrespectful. That he should cry when they do not, feels as if he is encroaching in something between them. Something old and gnarled and carved between them that isn't his to possess, to take on, but he wants to, he wants to help carry it if he can.

"So you're right, my dear almost-brother. There is something wrong. Something that cannot be excised overnight, I'm afraid, but I understand it. I understand the rotten core of it and I will help her and you will too."

She looks at him sternly.

"You will be patient and remind her often that she is enough, that she is nothing like whatever nasty thoughts she's thinking and when she shares bits of it, you will hear her and you will help her carry."

He swallows, looks at her, nods weakly.

"Can you do that, Mr. Carson? Can you promise these things? Because now you know and this promise will mean more than any vows in the church. Or will at least give you something to think about while you say them."

He is speechless, can't move at all. Wants to shout of course he will! He will promise anything! But he is overwhelmed, shocked to his core if he's honest. He can't imagine such horrors to his Elsie, to Glenna, and now sweet Rebecca, of whom he's only just learned. He can only blink at her.

"I love my sisters, Mr. Carson, and Elspeth especially is anything but weak, but she needs us now, and I don't know you from Adam, but I believe you love her, and I think now is the time for you to decide exactly what it is you're willing to promise, because if it's not this, I'll ask you kindly,  _once_ , to vanish from Elsie's life, before you make everything so much worse."

Glenna's voice is hard and cold as ice and he can see the fire in her gold eyes, can see she's ready to vanish him herself if it comes to it, if it all comes down to protecting her sister.

He understands now.

And it makes his next words easy. He knows what he can and cannot handle, has learned it in his retirement, and in the last exhausting months he's spent half-quarreling with her. He feels his stomach flip again and he knows exactly what he cannot withstand, what he must let go.

"I promise."

It is thick with tears and grief and the weight of guilt he lets ease just a bit off his shoulders, but it is sure. He will do anything for her, will walk through any storm, will help carry, will watch her heal, because he knows she will. Has never known anyone,  _anyone_ as strong as she is. He's always thought it, but he's sure of it now. She's stronger than everyone else he knows combined.

Glenna is still looking at him squarely, but he can see the fire in her eyes extinguished by glassy tears, can see the slight quirks of her lips beneath her heavy frown.

"I'll go to her now," she says and he nods.

He watches her push away from the table and rushes to open the door for her, to follow her out and guide her down the path to the abbey.

When they arrive he finds he's happy that she does not balk at the splendor of the architecture, the beauty of the grounds, he finds it all much less important now, much less impressive in the knowledge of what they've faced.

"Mrs. Scott?" he implores, just before her hand tugs on the bell, and she turns, looks at him over her shoulder.

"Thank you," he says, and her smile is less brittle this time, reaches her eyes.

"I think you'd better start calling me Glenna if we're to be brother and sister, Charlie," she says and then returns to the bell, gives it a swift pull.

It's glib and it's light and it almost makes him laugh.

As it is, he can only manage a slight smile as he waves to Beryl, who lets Glenna in. He stares at the closed door for just a moment before he starts his walk back to the cottage.

He goes the long way, thanks God for early trains and better understanding, for strong sisters and the gift of Elsie's heart, and when his heart turns heavy once more, he tries to concentrate on the rare blue of the sky.

* * *

"How long do you think she'll sleep?"

"Well, I don't know, she's been up with the rooster the whole time she's been here."

"Has she said anything to you about, well, anything?"

"She has, but she won't let me do a thing for her. No lunch, no basket even for the train after. If there'll even be a train! She won't speak of it to me."

"Hm, well, we will see about that."

The doorknob wiggles.

"Do you have a key to this?"

"Chance would be a fine thing! We'll have to get Anna— Mrs. Bates."

And then she can't take it anymore. Trudges over, unlocks the door, not even caring that Beryl will see her ratty nightdress still on or her snarled hair.

"Quiet down the both of you before the whole household knows you're out here talking nonsense."

"Wonderful to see you too, sweet sister. Might we come in?"

"If you like," Elsie says over her shoulder, already moving back to her bed.

Perhaps she'd overindulged just a bit, perhaps the whiskey she'd nicked from her fiancé's fine collection had taken off a bit more than just the edge of her nerves, but what did it matter? She was a broken woman and he might as well know that now.

"Mrs. Patmore,"

Elsie can hear the tense smile in her sister's voice, knows she's likely in for it, but, as with many matters of late, can't be bothered to care.

"It seems my sister isn't feeling well. Do you perhaps have a spare tray for tea I could trouble you for? I'm happy to follow you for instruction."

Elsie snorts at that lightly and can feel Glenna's talons grip her ankle through the sheet.

Half-heartedly she tries to shake her off.

"Of course, no trouble at all. I've had a few silly kitchen maids come down with this exact sickness, funnily enough. I'm happy to prepare something for Mary Queen of Scots here."

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore, you're very kind."

Elsie hears the door close and waits for Glenna to release her ankle, but she doesn't.

"Alright, Elspeth Mae Hughes. Enough. Get up."

Elsie gives her ankle another swift tug and frees it, curls into herself.

"Go away,  _please_ , Glenna.

And it's not angry or annoyed. It's simply tired, as exhausted and desperate as she feels.

It is clearly not the response Glenna is expecting, because she pauses, just for a moment.

"Won't you tell me what's wrong?"

Elsie sighs heavily beneath the covers, watches as her breath briefly tents the cotton before it falls again, rests against her cheek far too gently.

"Don't you think if I knew the answer to that, I'd have fixed it already?"

"Why don't you tell me about it then, Elsie?"

And that just does it. She's sick of thinking about it, of talking about it, of trying to reason it through. It consumes her totally these days. Leaves her breathless with its weight upon her mind.

 _Tell_  her about it?

 _Tell_ her?

What is there to say?

Elsie throws the covers back in frustration, looks at her sister with all the distress she's been feeling the last two weeks.

"What do you want me to say, Glenna?"

She's surprised when Glenna shrugs lightly.

"Whatever you need to."

And Elsie is furious. She's furious and terrified and would like very much to throw something, to break or tear or bite.

Instead she spews the venom in her mind, relays her stupidity on a heaving, breaking breath.

"I'm getting  _married_ in a  _week_ to a man I  _love_  and I'm nothing but a sniveling mess."

She is surprised when Glenna wraps her in a hug, because she's rarely so easily plied, so soft, but that's all it takes for her tears to start flowing again, making her aching head pound even harder.

"Oh, God, Glenna, what's wrong with me?"

"I hate to tell you this, Elsie."

"Tell me what?"

She watches as Glenna sits back, brushes at her tears, then looks at her squarely, her gold eyes stern.

"You aren't going to like it."

Elsie feels her breath hitch. Glenna is about to tell her that she is like their mother, that she is insane and frightful and cruel and out of her mind for feeling so anxious during what should be the most exciting time in her life.

She's not sure she can take this, not sure what she'll do when Glenna says it, would like very much to run as far away as possible because it is her worst fear and however badly it would hurt Charles for her to leave him now, she would be sparing him a world of hurt, from being stuck with her if her suspicions and Glenna's were aligned and true.

She feels like her insides are boiling, like her stomach is doing its best to crawl out her throat. Looking down at her hands, she almost doesn't feel they are hers.

"Just say it."

Glenna sighs.

"The truth of the matter is, puss, there's nothing wrong with you at all."

Elsie's head snaps up and her eyes go black for a moment with the force and the effect it has on her headache.

Or perhaps she's finally being smote for her sins.

"What?"

It's abrupt and inelegant, but it's all she can think of to say because what Glenna has said makes no sense at all. Doesn't she understand Elsie's state? Doesn't she know that she's selfish and sluttish and stupid and abandoning all reason for a man who deserves a woman who is none of those things?

"You heard me."

"Glenna, how can you say such a thing? I think we both know the truth."

"Alright, tell me the truth then.."

Elsie swallows hard. Looks back at her hands. Old hands. Old and tough from work and more like her mother's every day, perhaps capable of the same unthinkable cruelty. She can't stand it.

"I'm not a good person, Glenna. I'm like mother. I worry every day now that I'm with Charles. I worry I will be as cruel or even if I'm not  _that_ , I worry he'll see me for what I am and find me lacking."

"I see, and what exactly is it that you are?"

Elsie squeezes her eyes shut and feels a few hot tears leak through, wet her lashes.

"I'm selfish, stupid, and," she breathes, deep, says it in a rush, "a slut."

She cannot see Glenna's face to see the stricken look there, or how it fades to a grimace.

"Well," Glenna says after a moment, and Elsie can't look at her, is feeling her nerves so keenly now she's afraid to move at all.

"That's all nonsense."

This does cause Elsie to look up, meet Glenna's gaze.

"Believe me, Elsie. I've been here. I know this hurt."

Elsie wipes her eyes, rubs her hands over the covers.

"That's different."

"How?"

"You're you."

Glenna quirks a brow in question.

"Oh, I don't know. You got out sooner, I suppose. Perhaps you got out before it really got into you or maybe you're just different, but I know you and it's different. It just is."

Glenna takes a deep breath and Elsie is just about ready to ask her to leave, to just get back on the train to Scotland and leave her here to be what she is.

"I almost hit Arthur. Once."

Elsie can hear herself gasp, feels ice shoot from her fingertips up her arms.

She couldn't have been more shocked if Glenna'd actually poured ice water over her.

She'd  _what?_

Not Glenna. Glenna was good and pure and kind and...it just couldn't be, didn't make sense at all.

"Just once, when we were first married, we were arguing and I saw red and I almost did it, Elsie. I almost raised my hand to him. I stopped myself, but I'll never forget it. Not as long as I live. I regret it every day. That look in his eye when he realized what I'd been ready to do, what I'd almost done...I— well, I'll never forgive myself. It will always be there."

"Glenna, I —"

"The point is, Elspeth, we are not different. I'm not different from you. We witnessed some...awful things. Terrible things. There was a time when I wasn't sure mother would even have you because of their savagery, but you are here now, and you made it, made a way for yourself without even a husband. Els, you are as strong, if not stronger than me."

Elsie feels her head shaking before she's even processed what Glenna has said, before she can even think it through she is rebelling. She's not strong. She's not.

"Elsie you can fight this. It's not your fault and it's not fair that you've been saddled with it, but you can cast it off."

Glenna grabs hold of her hand and Elsie is reminded of when they were girls, of running through the fields with feet cut on rough stalks, far, far away from the house, from the shouting and the throwing and the pain, running into the heat of the afternoon until they couldn't breathe, hands still clasped as they sank to the earth in exhaustion.

"Do you know what stopped me?"

Elsie shakes her head both as she's brought back to the moment and in answer to Glenna's question.

"I didn't  _want_ to do it. It was a reflex, it was all I'd known, but I didn't  _want_ it. Do you understand?"

And Elsie can only stare, cannot believe what she's hearing. It's so simple, so simple and plain and she feels like a fog lifts, like her shoulders drop and her ribs expand wide enough for a full breath for the first time in weeks, months.

"Do you  _want_ to be like mother or father? Do you  _want_ to hurt Charles or anyone else?"

"No, God, no, of course not."

"Then there you go, Els. The very fact that you worry about it shows you it's not true."

And she is almost there, can almost believe her sister, except there's one more thing, one other thought that niggles in the back of her mind.

"But why now, Glenna? Why has it come on all of a sudden like this? Why not before, like you, when we were young?"

Glenna smiles a bit then, but it's a little sad, just around the corners.

"Well, I reckon it's because you've never been in love before, puss. Never had to think about sharing all your time, let alone your space. This is all new."

Elsie shakes her head, still trying, still fighting because it can't be that easy. It can't.

"But I love you. And I love Beck. And I've had friends and lived here and nothing, nothing until now."

It's Glenna's turn to shake her head.

"Not the same love and not the same degree of sharing, love. Plus, Beck and I were in it with you. There's nothing to hide from us."

Elsie looks at her hand twined with her sister's.

"It doesn't go away, love, as I've said before, but it gets easier once you learn how to fight it. Once you can put it in its place. And no one puts things in their place like you do, puss."

Glenna touches her nose with the end of her finger and Elsie feels like the shell of hurt and anguish that's built up around her shatters with that touch. Relief washes over her in great waves and all she can do is launch into Glenna's arms and whisper her thanks over and over.

She is not a monster. She doesn't want to be.

She  _is_ a fighter, comes by it honestly, and she will use that now, will fight tooth and nail for what and  _who_ she wants, will fight to believe she deserves it.

She will.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

It is the first truly crisp autumn morning they've had, and she has taken the opportunity presented by his proffered walk to cease her hiding from him.

She's missed him, feels guilty for it since she's the one who's pushed him away.

She squeezes his arm, her eyes shut, open again.

She reminds herself that it does no good to languish over it now. It is said and done and they will be married in three days' time.

If he still wants her.

If they are really going through with this.

Her thoughts are cut off by his deep voice, the puff of warm vapor his breath creates in the air when he addresses her.

"Are you nervous?"

She considers this, listens to the frozen grass crunch beneath their shoes. She isn't sure how to qualify what she feels, finally settles on:

"A bit."

She closes her eyes again and feels his solid warmth against her, opens them. She's less nervous with him, pressed against his side, holding his arm. She feels safe.

He cannot tame the storms, no, but he can insulate her, can hold her close, as she will him, and they can weather them together like that.

It's more than enough.

She feels him shift against her and her mind is momentarily distracted by his silent strength, a strength she's witnessed a few times now, times she's felt light and dainty in his arms.

The thoughts are pleasant and keep her feeling warm and anxious in an anticipatory way she hasn't expected.

It takes her a moment to register what he's said.

"Elsie — you—  _we_  don't have to do this if you're scared—if it's too fast."

Her breath catches and she looks up at him walking by her side through the grounds, squeezes his arm.

"I  _am_  nervous, Charlie. I suspect I might always be from time to time, but I'm not unsure. I know what I want and it's you as my husband."

She feels his intake of breath, his gentle exhale.

She is compelled to continue for some reason, to warn him. She is sure, yes, but is he? Glenna has spoken of their chat, the details she's told him and Elsie had been relieved, had felt quite unable to do so herself, but had felt dishonest in not telling him, so to know that he knew, knows is a weight off her shoulders— but is  _he_  relieved? Or is he scared? Gone off her? Being polite and asking if  _she_ might like to break the engagement in order to spare her?

"I know that what you've learned about...Scotland...isn't particularly...nice."

He looks at her sideways, his brows drawn together.

"I think that's a very generous way of putting it, Elsie," he says and she can feel her cheeks flush, her heart beating a solemn, thudding rhythm against her ribs.

He's gone off her.

She doesn't know what to say, can feel pressure like a vise around her middle. All this and he's gone off her.

She can't blame him really, except, she can just a little. She's been more vulnerable with him than she's been with anyone but Glenna, he's  _seen_  her and reassured her and if whatever Glenna has told him, whatever grisly details he's learned, has put him off, she thinks she at least deserves to hear that.

She has promised to fight for this. For this that's between them and for who she wants to be, and if she can't have the former then she will at least work toward the latter.

"I see. Well, I understand, naturally. I don't want you to think I'd trap you in our arrangement."

He looks at her strangely, and she plows on, determined to get this out before she loses her nerve.

She keeps her eyes fixed on the golden tops of the trees as they shiver in the autumn wind.

"We don't have to make a big announcement. I shouldn't like to embarrass either of us. We can just let Beryl and Glenna and perhaps Daisy and Anna know and let it circulate naturally. And if you don't mind, I should like to shield the...reasons behind our dissolution."

He stops abruptly and the force of it causes her to swing around towards him, pivoting on her heel. He catches her with two firm hands on her upper arms.

"Are you calling off the engagement?"

His eyes are dark and hard, but she can see something else there too, something soft and familiar that makes her heart ache.

"I—"

Truth be told she's feeling a little flustered, her emotions all over the place. She's scared and sad and happy and confused and —  _no_. She is not calling off the engagement, is she? If she is, it's only because she thinks that's maybe what he wants, but she doesn't know and she's committed herself to clarity and so though it pains her she asks him.

"Have I misunderstood you?"

He sighs deeply, brings her to his chest and holds her.

"You have if you think I have any desire greater than you becoming my wife."

She clutches his coat, breathes in the scent of him: spice and pomade and firewood.

"Maybe no desire greater, Charlie, but what about fear? Or doubts? Do you...I would understand if you were thinking twice about making me your wife after what you've learned, what you've seen me capable of."

"Oh, love," he says, his arms extending even further around her, crushing her to him. "If anything I'm even more in awe of your strength, of who you are. Not everyone with that sort of life...well, not everyone is like you. In my eyes, you are brilliant and brave and I only hope to be worthy of tending your happiness for the rest of our lives, if you'll let me."

She dries her tears on the rough wool of his coat, whispers her last fear against the fabric and feels it heat with her breath.

"And you aren't afraid of me? Because I am sometimes, Charlie. Sometimes those demons rise up and — and I feel as if I barely know myself. Doesn't that worry you?"

She feels his hands rub circles on her back.

"Perhaps it does, a little, but only because I want to be there with you properly through those times. I want to say and do the right things and I worry sometimes that I won't, but am I afraid of  _you_ , love? No."

She breathes against him, tries to calm her spinning mind that tells her that maybe he should be, that nothing is sure, but then she remembers Glenna and their talk and her own promise to herself, and she knows that she will fight until her dying breath to be the woman she wants to be, will shake off her chains as best she can, will be a wife to Charles and a credit to his name.

"Alright then," she says and removes herself from his embrace.

"Alright?" He echoes and his expression is so uncertain she can't help but smile a bit, just a bit.

"Alright, Charlie. Let's get married."

* * *

The wedding day is nothing and everything she has expected it to be.

Pins and buttons and bows are holding her together at all angles and she can't choke down a single bite of her breakfast in bed because her teeth are so on edge.

She lets Glenna and Beryl and Anna usher her from one task to the next while she focuses on breathing normally.

When Glenna brandishes a new corset with a wink and laces her up tighter than she normally wears, she hears the other ladies gasp and it makes her flush crimson and evokes the housekeeper in her.

"Heavens, enough gawking. A trussed turkey is a turkey all the same. Let's just...be on with it!"

Truth be told, when they scurry in different directions to gather her remaining garments and accessories, Elsie can't help but admire the white satin finish of the garment, the lace details around the bust, the way her freckles seem to stand out just that bit more against a corset that isn't dingy and worn.

"In you go," Glenna says and Elsie is thankful for the attention her dress requires to fasten because it allows her flaming cheeks a moment to cool.

Besides, she doesn't even know if the evening will hold any of  _that_. They've not discussed it and perhaps they will both be tired.

Still, as she watches three pairs of hands secure her into the gown, she swallows hard, can't help but think he'll have to help her if she doesn't plan to sleep in the smooth, dove grey silk.

* * *

He has thought of nothing else since entering the schoolhouse for their reception.

It was one thing to watch her graceful descent down the aisle, to turn and see her radiant beauty in the golden light of the church and to know with certainty he'd never worshipped so ardently between these walls as he did in that moment.

It was reverent, holy, of the bond between man and woman and their god.

This is entirely different. This is noticing the shape of her is...altered...beneath her dress, is biting his tongue when she slides off the jacket gifted to her by the household.

This is feeling the way she moves as they dance together and watching the way she moves when she's passed from his arms to his Lordship's and even to the cool Mr. Barrow, who blushes when she kisses his cheek after their dance.

He's watched her laugh and twirl and even as he's begun to ache, he has rejoiced because, in this iteration of a similar bygone scene, everything is better. Her eyes drift to his often, her side presses to his, and he can take her hand freely, even kiss it if he likes.

And he does.

At one point he even tells the entire room how proud he is to call her his, how lucky he feels to have her as his wife, but he still doesn't think they understand, because the depth of the anguish he felt when he last saw her in this context and the relief and joy he feels now could not possibly be expressed.

Instead, he holds her hand to his heart and leans down to kiss her cheek, and when she looks up he sees the mist of his eyes reflected in hers.

They've gotten here. They've finally done it. They have not missed out on this.

They dance a few more dances and the buttons on the back of her dress prove most distracting.

He feels each little ridge of them beneath his fingertips, finds himself fiddling no matter how lightly he presses his hand, how high and proper he positions himself.

He tries to tell himself that he needs to behave, reminds himself she's been fragile and that perhaps it will be many more weeks before she feels comfortable enough to be with him in  _that_   _way_ again.

It stops his digits fiddling with the little buds of fabric and their delicate loops, but it does nothing for his mind as several times throughout the evening they are herded close together, his front to her back, chest to chest, her hand on his arm or wrist or his fingers hovering at the dip of her waist.

There is even a moment when they are set to be seated that Glenna turns too quickly and knocks Elsie off balance and into his lap and it's all he can do not to groan aloud, especially when she turns toward him with that pretty bitten lip and upcast eyes.

When she murmurs her apologies and slides away, it takes all his strength not to say to hell with it, not to pull her back to him, kiss her lips, tease the lower one from between her tormenting teeth, propriety be damned.

As it is, he closes his eyes briefly and when he opens them he's met with Glenna's mirthful grin before she turns seamlessly back into conversation with Elsie and Beryl, who throws him a saucy wink that makes him splutter and cough.

Elsie turns and claps him helpfully on the back, then lets her hand run from his shoulder, down to his hand and then onto his knee beneath the tablecloth, where she lets it rest, save a few twitches of her nails absently drumming.

He clenches his fork hard and tries to ignore what he knows is Mrs. Bates's stare boring into him from his other side.

Minxes. The lot of them.

* * *

They walk back to the cottage together.

After the final toast has been made and kiss exchanged, they are finally free to go and Elsie feels both dread and excitement that she finds confusing.

She's noticed him noticing her, of course. She's not sure she will ever get so used to the feeling of being desired that she no longer notices it in the eyes of her husband.

And it had been fun to tease him a bit there at the reception— to remember all the things she'd desired from him the last time she'd...well, the last time.

But now that they are alone together she feels jumpy, frantic even, is unsure what to do with herself.

"Elsie, love, are you cold? You're trembling."

He asks her as he is rubbing his gloved hands over hers, pulling her closer, and she reminds herself that all that's changed is she's committed to spending many more moments just like this.

The thought calms her slightly.

"No, I'm alright. Just adrenaline, I think."

She says it as gently as she can and follows him to the threshold of the cottage. He unbolts the door, but leaves the handle in place, closed tight.

She is confused as to why he isn't opening it and is about to enquire after his own well-being when he places his fingers gently on her shoulders and gives her a brief, soft kiss.

"Will you permit me to…"

He looks at her expectantly and she has no idea what he's asking, is looking at him askance, waiting.

He can't possibly be asking for permission to disrobe her or to, to— she can't even think it — not right here on the doorstep, surely!

Besides, she can't be sure what her answer would be just now.

But still, she can't think of what else he'd need her permission to do. Afraid to let her irrational thoughts, her worries and fears rise up, she lets Mrs. Hughes take over, all efficiency and briskness.

"What is it, Charles? I can't think there's much I'd deny you just now, so whatever it is, out with it."

He stands straighter when he asks.

"'May I carry you over the threshold? I don't know if this is where our home is to be, but I would like very much to have a proper start, no matter where we land in the future."

She stares at him blankly for a moment. She thinks it's a silly tradition herself, a pointless old wives' tale, but he is looking at her so earnestly, his chin giving that little jut he gets when he's bracing himself, and she can't deny him.

She holds her arms out, feeling silly, and waits while he seems to size her up.

He moves toward her this way and that and he is so serious about it that she can't help giggling.

She is laughing fully when he looks up at her with mock sternness and it feels good, perfect, to finally be laughing, to feel some of the dark tension in her stomach abate.

"You're distracting me, Elsie," he says, low and serious, close to her ear, and she just manages to land a peck on his cheek before he's scooping her up.

Her legs draped over one arm and her back against the other, he tilts her slightly to grip the handle and push it in.

Inelegantly, they tumble through and she's laughing into his neck now.

"Stop that," he deadpans, even as he gives her side a little squeeze that makes her squeak.

She doesn't.

She laughs as she leans forward to kiss his cheek, once, twice, three times that turn from wet and silly to soft and lingering.

She does love him so much.

He turns his head to capture her lips and she's delighted to find his mouth follows hers even as he places her gently back on the ground, her body wedged to his for support so that for a brief moment she is supported by one of his arms and his strong chest.

"Welcome home, wife," he breathes and she's surprised to find that all the sentiment evokes in her is a warmth that seems to start in her chest and work its way to the tips of her ears, fingers, and toes.

Home.

She's never had anything she would have called "home." Oh, she's had shades of the concept, in the halls of Downton or the circle of Glenna's arms, but not like this, not the way you should. Not with surety and warmth and promises that will be kept.

No, home has been everything that's caused her grief and pain. Everything she thought she'd missed, that she'd never experience, never have, never deserve, she has now with him.

Whether they are in Yorkshire or Scotland or anywhere at all, she will forever remember home as the feeling of being pressed to his chest so closely she feels they might actually be one.

With him, she finds home in spades.

* * *

It's awkward at first and she still doesn't know what to do.

They hem and haw in the parlor for a bit.

She takes off her hat and gloves and he helps her with her coat, doffs his own and then he's staring at her so intently she can feel her stomach flip and turn.

She's feeling a little lightheaded, still giddy from the champagne on her mostly-empty stomach and the look in his eyes.

She's suddenly very aware of her new corset, the silky feel of her dress on her skin, a chill coursing down her spine.

He notices.

"Perhaps... I should...start a fire?" he gestures toward the fireplace vaguely, his eyes flitting between hers and the hearth.

She nods, bites her lip.

She wants very much to get more comfortable, to remove the garments confining her, but she can't without his help and she doesn't think she can ask, wouldn't know how to begin or if it would be alright.

Perhaps he is tired or perhaps even now it would be too forward, perhaps especially now, after their vows and the ring, it is most appropriate to follow his lead.

She doesn't think she can ask him to undress her and not react to his touch, doesn't think she could resist turning in his arms, helping his strong hands make her bare for him.

She swallows hard, watches the way the muscles in his shoulders work as he stacks the wood, the way his long fingers grasp each piece, the tips digging into the crevices there, his cropped nails dragging along the bark.

She feels frozen and a little insane that something so mundane should affect her so.

The nervous little flutter in her stomach returns and she clears her throat, smooths her skirt.

He turns to look at her over his shoulder and an errant curl has fallen across his brow making him look young and roguish.

"Perhaps a drink?" she lilts and he nods his head in acceptance.

She fixes one for them both out of his — their— private collection and moves toward the settee.

She sits and after a moment he joins her, far at first but then a little closer, settling in beside her.

He gives her a soft smile.

She can feel her heart pounding.

His thigh is touching hers, shifting every now and then and then his hand rests on her lightly bouncing knee. She freezes, swallows hard, loves the warm weight of him there against her, even in such a small way.

"This is nice, Elsie," he says, and she can only nod in agreement, give him what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

Her insides feel as if they are bouncing too, jumping and trembling and she can't tell if she's on the verge of some sort of attack or if she's simply wound so tightly from...everything...that her body has gone completely rogue.

She looks over at him, down at her drink.

She doesn't know what she wants.

She puts her hand on top of his.

* * *

He feels fit to burst and her soft hand resting over his, making distracting little patterns with her thumb is doing nothing to help.

He wishes she'd give him some sort of sign.

From the corner of his eye, he looks again at where the soft grey of her dress collides with the pale stretch of her neck, and even in the soft glow of the parlor he can see the trail of freckles that leads down the slope of her neck to the smattering he knows is there on her shoulder and that he longs to kiss, to taste, to worship with his lips and tongue.

He averts his gaze and it lands upon their hands.

It would be very innocent to hold her hand, to wrap his fingers around hers.

So, he sets his drink aside and moves his hand slightly, turns it so he can lace their fingers together and before he knows it he's pulled their joined hands onto his own knee, is using his other hand to trail his fingertips over the dips and valleys on their joined palms.

Carefully he traces the back of her hand, circles her knuckles with a light touch and then the ridge of her fingers curled around his.

He strokes the seam of her palm pressed to his, around the delicate bones of her wrist and up the other side, down each finger again.

He catalogues every freckle with the lightest scrape of his nail against her skin, connects each copper dot he can and circles his favorites.

When he's ready, he uses his palm beneath hers to spread her fingers, to stretch them against his and charts the lines of her palm, caress the places that they intersect, and then he's brushing against the outline of her, exploring the delicate skin between each finger and he's so engrossed, so captivated by the graceful angles of her, the exquisite softness of her skin.

He smooths his palms against hers once more and holds her hand strong in his grip, places it carefully between them, where their thighs touch, and squeezes.

He's promised himself not to press her and if the hazy, half-lidded quality of her eyes is anything to go by, she's quite tired.

He doesn't blame her.

She has been passed around from partner to partner on the dance floor and awake since god knows when to ready herself for the day. He knows she's not known a moment's peace from Glenna or Beryl for at least the last week.

And oh, she looks delicious. He wants nothing more than to indulge, to peel her dress from her skin and have her softly, sweetly, attend to her properly as her  _husband_ , but will hold back until she is ready, will wait for her as long as it takes.

He adjusts himself as subtly as he can, shifting in his seat.

He will wait.

* * *

She feels as if she could faint.

His careful ministrations have made her short of breath in her already cinched corset and she doesn't know how to ask, how to explain.

She wants him to stop, to never stop, to make up his mind because his fiddling with her is driving her mad.

First her buttons and then this, their bare skin touching more intimately than it has in weeks.

She can't keep her thighs from clenching against all the unfamiliar silk and lace she has beneath her dress and suddenly she's feeling very unsure again, very silly and foolish.

 _Why_ had she let Glenna and the rest stuff her into this silly get up? If she is to be a good wife, a proper wife, a  _wholesome_ wife, surely she wouldn't be...disrobing more than necessary, trying shamelessly to—to lure him or  _entice_  him.

God, she's probably made him uncomfortable and that is why he is fidgeting, he is trying to find a way to tell her that they must go to bed and that he is tired and that he should really be the...instigator of such activities if there are to be any activities at all.

And while he can't possibly know what she has beneath her gown, she does, and though she's felt rather fetching, perhaps even pretty, she knows now it would be better if she undressed alone as best she can.

It is not too late to spare them both the shame of her wantonness.

She finishes the last sip of her drink. Twists up her courage.

She will do this for them.

"Perhaps—" she clears her throat, her voice far huskier than she anticipated, "perhaps we should...turn in?"

He squeezes her hand lightly once, then tighter before releasing it.

"Yes," he says, "yes, let's go up. You must be exhausted."

His slip of the tongue is so endearing (for there is no 'up' to go to in this little cottage), she thinks, for a brief moment, that she might deny it, might tell him the truth and say how she's feeling and what she's worried about, but she quickly decides that she doesn't want to start their marriage that way, not just this one night.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow she will be open and honest and they will face it together and she won't blush or avert her gaze when he tells her the way things will be between them.

But tomorrow, not tonight.

Tonight she makes her way toward the bedroom, ignores the places in the hall that make her cheeks burn, and he follows close behind, extinguishing the fire and the lights as he does.

* * *

He follows her and looks on helplessly as she gazes about the room.

He's unsure what she's looking for, but he's taken the liberty of unpacking some of her things sent from Scotland.

Well, he's tried.

He had opened her trunk and rifled around, pulling out little bottles that he'd put in the washroom out of uncertainty for when she used them, and had encountered several contraptions he didn't understand, including some sort of medieval torture device that he had deduced must have had something to do with pinning up her hair.

It was only when he'd encountered her corset, stern and practical, and so ridiculously small in his over-large hands that he'd had to stop, had gasped and closed the lid and left it be.

He wonders, if her corset — the one he is familiar with — is in her trunk, what she has on under that dress.

The dip of her waist is more pronounced, certainly. It is always small, but today it seems particularly drawn tight, which makes the line of her...different.

He examines the curve of her hips.

Different, indeed.

He starts when he realizes she's looking at the bed he'd turned down this morning, prepared for her, anxious for her arrival.

Now it seems a very forward thing for him to have done.

He shouldn't have assumed, but doesn't know what to do about it now, so he asks her if she'd perhaps like some privacy to undress, if he should use the washroom first.

She looks at him and her expression is puzzling even as she answers in the affirmative, gestures for him to go first and then she will follow.

He leaves her alone in his room,  _their_ room, and tries to complete his evening routine as normally as possible.

He brushes his teeth, uses his comb to free his hair a bit from the liberal amount of pomade he uses to tame it, splashes a bit of warm water on his face.

It won't do. He'd hoped not to linger too long, to allow her use of the washroom quickly, but his hair is stiff and slick and he doesn't want to soil the clean linens he's put on for them.

He'll have to wash it.

He can do so quickly, has done for years, but typically in his vest, or bare-chested all together.

He pauses, unsure.

When he lived alone he frequently undressed in the washroom, made quick work of his hair, donned his dressing gown, and procured fresh pajamas from the stack in his dresser, but he feels he can't go out in that state of undress, can't shock her that way.

He looks at himself in the mirror, fingers poised on the knot of his tie. After a moment, he undoes it, removes his clothes down to his shirtsleeves and trousers.

He unbuttons his collar and his cuffs, rolls the latter up just enough that he won't get them wet.

As quick as he can, he scrubs his hair in the sink, makes sure that all traces of pomade and then his soap are rinsed out and then quickly dries himself with one of the clean towels.

He looks in the mirror again, his hair a mess, a splash of water on his shoulder.

He still needs pajamas.

Seriously, he regards himself, tries to decide if he looks too improper to rejoin her. He rebuttons his collar, fiddles with his sleeves.

Now he's dallying and the thought frustrates him because it's not considerate to her at all.

Right then.

He straightens himself, takes a deep breath, then heads back toward their room.

He will simply pop in, makes his excuses to grab his garments, sneak back to the washroom and change.

Foolproof.

Except he doesn't think to knock on his own bedroom door, in his plan of politeness forgets it entirely and barges in to see his new wife arched gracefully on the chair in front of the dresser, trying valiantly to reach the buttons on her back.

It's fruitless and ridiculous and actually a bit funny, but he can't find it in himself to laugh, to make any sound at all as the fabric of her dress twists and presses against her, outlines her fully.

He can see the line of her leg pressed against the silk, which is riding up with each effort she makes to reach behind her, and then there is the heel of her shoes pressed into the hardwood at an angle, the turn of her dainty ankle, the full curve of her hips and her breasts pressed up by her mystery garment that he can see the soft outline of what he knows is porcelain, milky skin, lush and curved and perfectly fitted to his palms.

He can barely breathe.

She's got the first few undone, is making a little noise, trying to get to the next when she spots him, drops her hands to her lap and stares.

He sees her eyes on his bare arms and it makes him fidget. She'd said once they weren't young or wilting and things like bare forearms shouldn't bother them, but the way she's looking makes him think perhaps she is bothered, perhaps he's offended her.

Before he can speak, excuse himself, she does.

"I'm sorry — I— I thought that while you were changing I would do the same, but, well—" she gestures vaguely to her entire person, "—as you see."

She smiles at him soft and light, a way he'd seen her look sometimes at the breakfast table at Downton when he'd notice something new about her, her frock or her hair or anything at all. He'd try not to qualify, not to say she looked beautiful or lovely or any of the things he'd've liked to say. Instead, he'd merely point out, acknowledge, always hoping she'd known what he meant, and he always received this exact smile in response.

He still is unsure what it means, and is still very, terribly distracted by the way her dress has shifted to reveal more of her shoulder, the soft dip of her collarbone. He swallows, tries to speak.

"Pajamas," he says and the look of puzzlement on her face matches his own reaction to his nonsensical exclamation.

"Yes," she agrees, and he notices now she's biting her lip, holding back what he thinks might be a very charming giggle, "but I can't."

They stare at each other for a moment and both feel as if they are waiting for a bomb to drop, for something to shift and change and tell them what they should do next.

He looks at her seriously.

She is his wife. His wife who is delicious and beautiful and intelligent and funny and stuck in her dress, waiting very patiently for him to help her out of it.

It strikes him that she should not have to ask, that he has pledged himself to her mind and body and will do his best to care for her and he's stepping toward her now, throwing a prayer to the heavens he won't offend her, extending his hand.

"Let me help?" He means to say it, state it, but it still comes out as a question, and to his immense relief she nods at him again, takes his hand and looks up at him with warm blue eyes and he can't help kissing her gently, just touching his lips to hers and lingering there for a moment, feeling the way they fit together and how her lips are incredibly soft, terribly inviting.

He touches his forehead to hers and breathes in deeply, feels her hot breath on his chest and then turns her slowly, keeping her close.

He looks at the little buttons that have been driving him mad all day, observes the way they trail down her spine, right down to the top of her bum.

He reminds himself he's undressing to help, not seduce, but decides he can make it gentle anyway, make it soft, show her with his actions how much he cherishes her and loves having her near.

Slowly, he lets the tips of his fingers glide from the nape of her neck down to the first done-up button, he traces the line of her skin and then bends, presses a very gentle kiss just there.

Then he sets to work.

* * *

It is unlike anything she's ever known, this slow torment.

He'd come in so quietly, had hardly made a sound and when she'd seen him it'd been so difficult, so trying not to make a sound, not to react to his strong arms bared to her and his hair mussed and curled and still damp and she's never known that a man's damp hair could affect her so, but it's torture not to card her fingers through it, to grasp those unruly curls and pull him to her lips.

Then he'd offered so sweetly, so kindly to help and she couldn't deny him, could never deny him standing there like that, and now there's this.

They have been so frantic, have come together furiously twice now, but this is different. It is soft, light, unbearably drawn out and she's trying very hard to keep her eyes open as his strong arms flex and ripple with his work, trying to keep her wits about her as he kisses the next patch of skin he reveals, whispers what sounds like "I love you," against her spine.

She can't be sure it's what he said, but she says it back anyway, because it's true and because she wants him to know, always.

"I love you."

His fingers are reaching her mid-back now, rapidly approaching the edge of her corset and she watches his hands in the mirrors atop their dresser, watches how his body dwarfs her own.

She tries to focus on anything but the feel of the heat of him behind her, the feel of his fingers tending to her so carefully.

The dresser is a beautiful piece. It is large and dark and sturdy and holding the paneled mirror so gracefully, effortlessly framing them from all sides. His fingers brush her skin again and she can see herself gasp softly, see his own expression he hovers there, pokes his tongue out and licks his lips.

She swallows hard.

Such a pretty piece, how nice and strong it appears - like him, really, the way he looks so handsome and serious there behind her, caring for her gently and so properly.

And it's no use, she can't help as she watches from all angles, fascinated by the slow movement, the lush detail of it as he bends and drops another sweet kiss to her skin, his hot breath cascading over her and causing her to break out in gooseflesh.

"Elsie," he rasps, and she can't stop herself, can keep from leaning back toward him just a bit, steadying herself with a hand on his hip, the other on the outer part of his thigh.

She could moan at the way they are so close together, but still held apart, the feel of his fingers still resting on her buttons, his strong body in her palms, bites her lip instead and looks at herself in the mirror, the way her eyes are desperate, her cheeks flushed, the way she's nearly pressed up against her man and holding him there.

"Should I stop?" he whispers, as soft and gentle as his booming voice allows, and it teases the wisps of her hair that have worked free.

She closes her eyes, opens them.

"No, don't stop, please."

She can feel him readjust, move his arms at an awkward angle to continue his work, but keep them close.

He pops another button, two, and she can feel the cool air sweeping in along her sides, feel his intake of breath as her corset is revealed.

Her gown is barely hanging on, the fabric clinging to the delicate slopes of her shoulders and he's at a point now where she has to move, has to cease bracing herself against him if he is to go further, remove the thing entirely.

She thinks only a moment before she is leaning forward, bracing her palms on the dresser and presenting him with her lower back, the rest of the buttons.

The soft grey silk slides over her shoulders a bit, stops at her upper arms and she catches another glimpse of herself, heavy-lidded, breathing deeply, in the mirror before she looks at him over her shoulder, speaks to him lowly.

"Please continue, Mr. Carson."

His mouth is a thin line and his brows are drawn and if she didn't know better, she'd assume he was angry, about to bellow at a hallboy or a housemaid or her, and a little thrill goes through her wondering if he'd ever been on the verge of something else during one of their arguments.

She shifts her weight, unconsciously widens her stance just a bit, waits for him to begin again and wonders what will happen once he's done, once there's no more buttons for him to loosen.

After a moment, he steps closer to her, puts her in his reach and their hips are nearly touching and she hasn't intended for any of this to happen, has promised herself to be patient, but it is very hard to find her will just now as the flat of his palm runs from her nape, at the base of her twisted coif, to the last open button and begins again, and she knows if she dared, if she pushed just a little, she could grind herself against him and get some relief.

She breathes deeply instead, looks up and meets his eyes in the mirror and tries hard to keep quiet as she feels him pluck the next few buttons free.

He's made no move to push the dress any further than it's already fallen over her skin, but she wishes he would, wishes he'd tear the thing from her body and —

She hears him sigh deeply as he reaches the end of her buttons, watches his eyes bore into hers through the glass as he slowly spreads his hands, lays his palms against the base of her spine and presses there, his thumbs digging into muscles sore from hours of dancing and heeled shoes.

She can't stop herself from moaning, arching a bit and pressing into his touch, and she wants to press back further, to push herself against him and beg him to sod the dress and take her to bed, but she is also enjoying this, this slowness, this careful unraveling, the ability to take their time.

They can discuss rules for their behavior in the morning — what's acceptable, what's not— she'll ask him tomorrow what is appropriate for a wife, but just now she can think of nothing but the way his hands span her hips and the magic of his fingers as he prods and presses her taut flesh.

* * *

In retrospect, he would say he lost himself completely when she bent over the edge of their dresser and presented herself to him like a gift to be unwrapped.

He had been trying so hard to be good, to press kisses as gentle and sweet as possible against her warm, rose-scented skin, but what was he to do? How was he to resist when she bent like that, as best she could, the bright white of her satin— Christ — satin corset with pretty white ribbon and her dress disheveled.

To keep from ravishing her he is massaging her there, just at the edge of this delectable new, very new corset, pressing his fingers into the fabric of her dress and imagining what her flesh looks like there, he's sure he's never seen from this angle.

Her round, lovely bottom is so near, clad in grey silk that is pulled delightfully taut by her position, and he is painfully hard, straining against his shorts and his trousers and the idea of pressing himself against her presented backside is tantalisingly insistent.

However, he finds he is more concerned with seeing what the fabric is still hiding, the secrets of this new underthing and more importantly what's beneath that and he can only hope she'll forgive him, only hope that discussions of restraint and propriety can wait until the morning.

"Undo your cuffs," he says, keeping his eyes on hers as she stays bent there, uses one hand at a time to undo the other.

She licks her lips, looks up at him with an expression that he can't quite name, but seems half-agony and for some reason it is doubly hard not to press himself against her, to hold her gaze and raise her skirts and find the slit of her knickers and have her just like this against their dresser, but he tucks that idea away, saves it, finds himself ecstatic at the prospect of having infinite time to try infinite things with this woman, to know exactly what she likes, what makes her pant and buck and cry out and—

He's losing himself now, tries to concentrate as he reaches up, gingerly pushes at the edges of her dress where it sits on her upper arms, brushes his fingers across the silky skin there and finally breaks their stare as he watches the fabric fall to her wrists, revealing the sumptuous plane of her bosom to his eyes.

He can't breathe, is vaguely aware of a gasping sound he thinks he's made, but his eyes are trained on her breasts as they rise from this snow-white corset, lined with lace and bows, and how they press into each other, threaten to spill over their confines with every breath.

He can't. He really can't cope for another moment without seeing her fully, knowing fully what sort of bewitching getup she's been wearing all day beneath that proper dress and right under his nose, right within his reach the whole time.

All day, he thinks again. in the church, while I held her in my arms for our dance, at the reception, in my lap, he groans, in the arms, god, of his Lordship and Thomas and —

And it thrills him even more, shames him and thrills him to remember how the men in Scotland had spoken of her, had wanted her, had desired the spirited, gorgeous woman in front of him.

He finds himself feeling both possessive of her and incredibly, incredibly pleased at the thought that none of the men knew exactly what they were missing, could guess, could wonder, but would never know the secrets of her body like this— the way her breasts push against hera corset, the way her hips flare so prettily against her tiny waist, the strength of her thighs covered in cotton and lace and then wrapped snug around their waists.

He takes a tiny half-step closer, just enough to feel the fabric of her dress brushing against his trousers.

No, all this is for him — for them.

Leaning forward he touches her wrist, urges her to turn, returns his eyes to hers and holds her gaze as he pulls her sleeves from her wrists, pushes the fabric down and off until she can step out of it, using a hand on his shoulder to steady herself.

He carefully avoids looking at her at first, instead hangs her dress neatly in the wardrobe and when he turns to find her facing him, looking at him with her hands folded in front of her, it's a gesture so familiar it melts his heart.

He loves her. He loves her so much and they are finally together as they should have been really, always, from the start.

But he won't regret it now, won't waste his time in the past when she is standing in front of him like that.

"Elsie," he says, reaches out and untangles her clasped hands, holds them in his, "do you have any idea how beautiful you are? What you look like to me standing here as you are?"

She laughs a little, looks away, back at him.

"I'm serious," he says, leaning close to her neck and whispering across the skin there, inhaling her scent deeply and nipping, just lightly with the edge of his teeth.

He smiles when she inhales sharply.

"I've always admired you, of course, from the moment you marched in the door with your head held high and your teasing remarks, Elsie—I—"

He can't go on, tell her all the sordid things he imagined, dreamed in the beginning when he was following her up stairs, watching her scold errant footmen, seeing her gowns at the servants' ball.

Not now, but someday. He tucks that away, too.

He can't talk at all just now as he brings his hand to the dip at her waist, so narrow, so smooth in his hands, covered in slick satin, pulls her toward him.

"Beautiful," he commands, willing her to accept herself as he sees her.

He leans forward and kisses her brow, her cheek, the line of her jaw, pauses at her lips.

"Yes?" he whispers softly, holding her gaze a moment longer, murmuring against her so their lips brush as he says it.

He is barely holding himself in check, is finding it hard to remember why he is doing so in the first place.

"Yes," she breathes and he captures her mouth fully, kissing her slowly and passionately and with all the love he has always, will always, hold for her.

Her lips are plump and soft and irresistible as he nips and licks at her there, breathes softly against her before taking her again. He pulls away to trail across her lower lip, swollen and slick, with the tip of his finger and then swallows her gasp as he plucks at the center of it to open her to him.

Her hands are so tightly clenching his shirt that he is sure it will be ruined, but he can't bring himself to care, is focused instead on walking her backwards, leading them both with mouths still exploring until her knees hit the mattress and break their kiss as she sits.

He kneels immediately and pushes her knees apart to situate himself between them.

"Wait," she says, and he wants to scream, has to actually force himself to keep his hands still on the outside of her thighs and wait.

Oh, but there is a part of him that enjoys the wait, enjoys following her command, would do or not do anything she bid him.

"You're still not quite ready for bed, my love."

She says it and it bewilders him for a moment, but then she's reaching forward, poised at the first button of his shirt collar.

"Let me help?" she asks, and he has to swallow hard before he can even nod his permission.

* * *

He breathes deeply when she scoots herself forward, draws him deeper into the v of her thighs.

She pulls him very close, kisses the line of his impressive brow, small little presses filled with affection until his head is bowed slightly, resting on the side of her jaw, and she can feel his hands clenching her thighs so powerfully she's sure she'll have marks.

Keeping him where he is, she begins to work on his shirt blindly. She stares down at the expanse of his back, the way his triceps are twitching against his white sleeves.

She is very aware of his hot breath on her chest, for it is extremely distracting and makes her want to rock or squeeze or something against him, anything to relieve the ache.

He doesn't kiss her. Doesn't put his mouth or his hands on her skin, but she can feel her nipples tightening painfully anyway at just the feel of his nearness, his deep sighs. They rub against her shift and her corset and even the soft satin is too rough, not rough enough, no substitute for his hands, his mouth.

She continues her work on his shirt and when she feels she has reached the rise of his stomach she takes a moment to run her hands inside the stiff cotton, feel the silk of his skin, the sparse hair covering him there.

She doesn't play. She doesn't scratch or tweak or trace, no matter what she wants. She is trying to be respectable, to show her willingness, not her wantonness, so she runs her palms along him only to learn the angles of him, the hills and valleys.

Her hands smooth over his chest to grasp his shoulders, digging in just slightly to the muscles there, finding where he is tender and working the flesh, feeling his fingers crawl against her in response until he is grasping her hips.

She skims his collar bones, barely touches the contours of his strong chest, skates across the flats of his nipples, over the tight points and down until she encounters a line of coarse hair that she knows leads toward his sex, and she retreats.

She tugs his shirt from his trousers, sits him back up with a swift kiss to his temple, his cheek, and stays close as she plucks at his rolled cuffs, pushes his shirt over his shoulders and he almost has it off when she leans forward and kisses him fully, can feel his frantic movements as he tries to untangle his hands from his shirt and return them to her.

If she were a wicked woman, she might smile.

As she breaks their kiss, she touches the button at his middle.

She is holding back valiantly, wants to pop it unceremoniously, undo his zip, pull the rest of his damn things off just enough to free him and take him as before, but she has decided she is not a wicked woman.

She rests her hands there and only begins undoing the button slowly when he returns his hands to her knees, looks her in the eye, nods.

When the button is undone she circles her fingertips over the skin there, that rough hair and his soft stomach, and takes her time as she pulls down his zipper.

She can still see them in the mirror, barely, but it allows her another look at his expression, his closed eyes and pressed lips, and it gives her the confidence she needs to slide her hands beneath his waistband at his hips, to dip and press and stroke against him there.

She's not on it, is still simply mapping.

She's mapping him.

Her hands slide and grasp and she can't help the way her nails drag against him when she pulls up, runs them over his bare chest and up to his jaw where she holds him and asks if he will kiss her.

He does and it's lush and languid and she feels as if he is everywhere, the scent of him and the gentle exploration of his tongue, the deepness of his kiss and the hard press of his fingers inching dangerously close to her bum.

She feels as if she's on fire, as if every nerve is twisting and turning and begging for him to take her, to finish this, to make her fall over the edge with him, and she knows it is wanton and desperate, but she can't think clearly when his fingers are tracing the insides of her thighs.

When he ends their kiss he holds her hands and stands looming so tall over her that she actually shivers at the sight of him, watches the way his body moves, so graceful, so controlled and she wants him.

God, she wants him.

She can see the outline of him, the heavy hardness of his cock pressed against his trousers and the knowledge that she has inspired that, has brought him to this state makes her try to cross her legs, to be subtle in her pressing.

But she doesn't fool him, she can tell by the way his eyes light with fire as she does it, tries to assuage the ache of her desire herself, right in front of him.

She stops, uncrosses her legs, waits for what he will do.

* * *

"Your corset," he says, drinking in her expression, her wrinkled brow and bitten lip and he wants to kiss her again, but he wants to see her even more.

His wife. His wife in this new corset she's donned for their wedding day — night — for him?

His brain is foggy, but he thinks he must have factored in at least somehow into the decision to wear such a thing. After all, who else would she be expecting to —

He nearly gasps, chokes on his efforts not to, makes a strangled noise that makes her stand and that doesn't help at all because the swell of her breasts press against him and he's can help but look down at them, think again about the way the men want her and he has her, like this, and then there's this startling new thing...this dancing, niggling thought that she had perhaps expected something tonight.

The idea that she's considered it is enough to move him, to put his hands on her hips and calm the fluttering movements she's making around his face, asking after him and what's the matter.

She falls silent and the heat of her flesh in his palms causes him to squeeze her there, unable to resist some relief.

His hands slide up then, over the sleek coolness of her corset, dipping into her waist and then up again until his index finger can trace the line of her corset, the frilled edge of her shift where its peeks out.

He feels her sigh deeply and looks briefly to her face for any sign of annoyance, any indication he's upset her.

He finds nothing, only her eyes on his, her lip still between the edges of her teeth.

He is trying to keep his pelvis tilted away from hers, trying to keep his hips from pushing forward toward her as they want to and he's reminded momentarily of the time in the hall when she'd taken him in her mouth and subjected him to the sweetest torment he's ever known.

He leans forward and kisses her. It is awe and thanks and hope and anxiety all in one.

He wants to love her, to kiss her, more, and it's clear she's at least, probably, maybe, expected him to see her, but god.

He's getting frustrated now, does not know what's expected of him, how to fill this role. He wants to be a good husband to her and he does not know if that includes ravishing her on their wedding night.

He knows couples make love on this night, he is not an idiot. It's only, he doesn't know how vigorous it is allowed to be or if she even wants that.

And, Christ, he's thinking too much, and he realizes that he's been tracing the edge of this wonderful, new satin corset while considering what might be allowed.

He studies the way she looks almost swollen now, strained as she is against her corset and he's not sure she can breathe like that. She doesn't seem to be doing so at the moment.

That won't do.

"Elsie, can I — would you mind if I...," he trails off, tugs against one of the bows at the crest of her cleavage and just barely keeps himself from bending to lick her there in that delectable valley.

He's startled when she threads her fingers into his hair, replies breathless, absentminded as she pulls on his curls, which he knows are wild and unseemly.

"I think you'd better," she says, so simple and smooth and he can feel himself falling now, knows he's passing the point of logical thought as she scrapes her nails across his scalp and his hands span her middle.

He leans down, does not resist running his tongue between that cleft at her breasts as he pushes and pulls at her busk until he has it partly undone and she's filling the thin fabric of her shift beneath, her hard nipples poking out and begging for his attention.

He breathes in deeply, tilts his head to bite against her neck and then soothe the spot with his tongue when she gasps.

Her fingers are scratching his back now, his shoulders. Her lips are kissing his hair again and again.

And maybe it will be alright if they just learn, just take the time to sweetly, softly, say goodnight this way.

He will finish undressing her, will kiss her body, will drink his fill, and then they will go to bed and speak of this in the morning.

They will have to speak in the morning, for he will not be able to stand another night with no relief.

He wonders if he might be able to excuse himself to the washroom again before they sleep so that he might take himself in hand and finish the job as he has before when he has been weak or it has been the middle of the day at Downton and he had found himself quite unable to serve or supervise or do anything other than make a quick trip to his room and try not to think of her hands or mouth or breasts or her hot, wet—

"Elsie."

He lets her name out on a groan and bends to take one nipple in his mouth through her shift.

When she cries out against him, he can't stop himself from nibbling, scraping just lightly with his teeth and then withdrawing to taste the other side.

His tongue draws a languid pattern around what he knows is the pretty pink of her nipple, reveals it to himself with the lapping of his tongue, until her sheer shift sticks and he can watch her tighten further at the cool air against the damp fabric.

He is losing himself now, losing this battle, but he cannot care.

He nuzzles her, brings his palms from her waist to the sides of her breasts, lets the weight of them press deliciously into his skin and then lifts, presses, squeezes lightly as she pants, gasps against him.

He pushes them against one another in a facsimile of what her corset does, lets his thumbs brush across her nipples and when she makes a little fussing noise he stops immediately, surrenders his hold and regards her.

"Are you alright, Elsie, did I hurt you?"

She is shaking her head almost before the sentence is out.

"No, no, you didn't hurt me, you — no. Can you—? I mean, if you want —? I —"

He looks at her seriously. What does she want?

He doesn't know, knows extremely well what he wants, can feel himself twitching inside his trousers, wishes for the millionth time she'd tell him.

He leans down to catch her lips in a firm little peck, one, two, three times before he speaks.

"Shall I—"

And it's so difficult. So bloody awkward.

"Shall I continue…?"

He looks into her bright blue eyes, so dark and hooded, notices the delicate bobbing of her throat as she swallows, the swollen pinkness of her lips as she licks them again.

"Yes, Mr. Carson, we aren't quite ready yet."

She means for bed, he thinks, but he doesn't care at all as she uses her hand (small, delicate, porcelain) to bring his (large, calloused, tanned) to her breast again.

He can't tear his eyes away when she flexes her hand over his and they squeeze her there together.

And, privately, he thinks that she can bloody well speak for herself because he's never been so ready in his life, is, in fact, a little worried that he might ruin his trousers, can feel himself leaking.

And then there's her, and the way she's pressing toward him, making it so difficult for him to keep his arousal from pushing up against her. He is trying valiantly to hold her hips in place with one hand, but she seems determined, is shifting and moving and before he knows what's happening, the hand that has been holding her hip is full of her thigh and the roundness of her bottom as she wraps herself around him.

The motion of her hips against his thigh is almost instant and it makes him groan as he feels his hardness pressed against the stiff plane of her corset.

With their other hands, they are both still working over her breast, tweaking and pressing, until hers abandons their work and lands on his neck, slides down his chest until she is toying with his nipple, pinching lightly and running her nail against him, and suddenly he is roaring with it, cannot take this any longer.

He thrusts her away.

"Mrs. Hughes, may I please take you to bed? Please?"

He knows he sounds desperate and insane, but he is, he is mad with wanting her so he figures it's natural.

"God, yes, I thought you'd never ask," she says with genuine relief and a hint of frustration and it's just like so many of the conversations they've had before except she's standing there very undone in her opened corset with her nipples clearly visible through her shift and he's got a wet spot on his trousers where she's just been pressed against him and it all seems so surreal, absurd.

He is truly the luckiest of men.

The thought both amplifies and diminishes when she steps back from him slightly, leans down and unclips her garters, catches his eye as she rolls the delicate silk of her stockings down and off each leg.

She looks at him expectantly, and it reminds him so acutely of the times she's stood and instructed their charges he has to close his eyes.

It's not proper to think of her in that context when she is like this, he knows, but he cannot help it. This is what they are built on— memories of everyday tasks and almosts, and the way they fell in love over the locking of a door, the signing of a ledger, the rotation of the linens, and the leadership of their staff.

"Do you still need help, Mr. Carson?"

Her voice is soft and earnest and so very close and he opens his eyes to find her near him now, and her expression holds an uncertainty that he feels he must quell. He thinks perhaps there has never been anything more urgent than his need to dispel her fears, to reassure her.

He feels himself surge again.

Well, almost never.

He drinks in the image of her like this and adds it to his mental catalogue of everything that is Elsie, Mrs. Hughes, brave Elspeth from Argyll and he loves them all, finds them beautiful and charming and utterly desirable.

If there is any chance she does not know his eagerness, he is sure she will now as he reaches down, clasps her lovely, elegant hands in his and brings them calmly to his undone trousers and curls her fingers around the waistband.

"Yes, please, Mrs. Hughes."

She begins to pull, push down and he thinks she might be talking, asking him something, but he can't imagine what it could be at a time like this, with her fingers brushing his skin, the friction of fabric dragging against fabric — still, he is trying to be polite, dignified.

"What did you say, love?"

It comes out between his labored breaths and her eyes are on him and she seems dreadfully distracted, but she is responding anyway as her hands trace along his thighs, touch the edge of his shorts.

"I asked if the footmen undressed you this way."

He nearly chokes as the end of her question coincides with the backs of her fingers brushing against his hardness through the cotton of his shorts.

"I should think not!" he splutters and she doesn't seem to absorb his response at all, a tiny smile gracing her features as she touches the wet spot he's created ― well, she's helped him ― on his shorts.

He worries he will come right then without her ever really touching him, without being inside her as he aches to be.

"Hmm," she hums, and backs away, looks at him as she undoes her corset.

"No one helps me, usually," she says, conversationally. "Occasionally one of the girls if I'm wearing a particularly tricky dress, but I haven't done in years. Until today, I suppose."

And he wants to focus, he does, but he can't imagine why she is trying to converse with him just now, how she can expect him to say anything intelligible when she is draping her ivory corset over the back of the chair she'd occupied earlier.

"It's just you now, I suppose, to help me."

He nods as she walks toward him, touches the knot on her knickers and then looks up at him beneath long lashes.

"Do you want to?" she holds out the end of one tie and he takes it.

It looks so delicate between his fingers and for a moment he is afraid of the ways he is so large and ungainly and she so slight, so effortlessly exquisite and refined.

Still, she is looking up at him with her bitten lip and she has worn that corset and she has asked him if he wants to undress her and he can't lie to her. He never could.

He draws on the little ribbon and watches as it slides against itself until it is slipping free, until her knickers come undone and pool on the floor and he bends to help her out of them, can't resist running his hands up her legs as he stands, taking the hem of her lacy, sheer shift with him, never breaking contact with her skin until he is drawing it over her head.

She is glorious. She is magnificent and he takes a moment to simply look because he can now, he can and there had been a time he thought he'd never get the chance, never again be afforded the luxury of admiring her openly, calling her his.

"Beautiful," he says, and he can't stop his hand from reaching out to brush against her, to touch the jut of her hip, the dip of her navel.

He traces the curve of her breast, the slope of her shoulder and neck and down the center of her there between her breasts and around until he is tracing the little scar he has learned as a mark of her strength.

He remembers seeing a model of the Venus once, in a museum in London, and looking at Elsie he is sure she must have been the inspiration. She is everything in her soft curves and graceful lines.

There is only one thing missing.

"Your hair."

She looks at him with that half-sleepy look again and he wonders if perhaps he'd misjudged it before.

He touches her just above her ear, smiles a bit when she leans her head into his touch.

"May I take it down?"

"Yes, heavens, yes. You can do anything you want, Charlie."

She gasps a little, gives him a bashful smile and if it is an indication that she is shocked by her words, it can't be half as much as she's shocked him. He ponders the thought that she is possibly as receptive as he is, and it sends a thrill through him that makes him twitch in a way he knows she sees.

He looks at her sheepishly and then turns her and begins unpinning the way she showed him, the way he will never, ever forget for it is far too precious.

Each pin he hands to her and watches as she grips them tightly in her palm. So tightly her knuckles turn white with the effort.

Each coil unfurls and he feels helpless against her beauty as they tumble down and tickle his stomach, her back, their chills wash over them simultaneously, and he can feel the heat of her body, the desperate ache of his cock to be near her, in her, to turn her and lift her and enter her.

But it would not be right.

It would not be the service she deserves. He has had her in that frantic way twice and he commits himself again to being together properly this time, to attend to her in the way she deserves.

When the final strand is free, he gathers the heavy curtain of her tresses in his hands, twists it round and round, feeling the softness of it in his palm, and lays it gently over her shoulder.

He does not know how to plait, so it will have to do for now.

He turns her gently and her eyes are closed, but he touches her chin and she meets his stare with a smoky gaze.

"Will you put the pins down?" he asks her, but he knows his voice is low, rougher than he means and he is surprised when she presses them into his hand.

"On the dresser, I think," she says, and he is struck dumb as she turns from him, wanders to the bedside and pulls back the covers further.

When she looks up again, she quirks a brow.

"Mr. Carson?"

It is a question of his obedience to her order and an invitation and he is eager to accept both and so he does. He places the little pile of silver pins neatly on the dresser and sees her in the mirror over his shoulder as she crawls into bed, settles back against the pillows.

He is afforded an enticing view of her backside, and he sends a prayer of thanks to whatever deity was on his shoulder the day he purchased this piece.

When he turns, he can see her eyes trail down his body and it titillates him. He has had women before, has been flirted with and cajoled and flattered, but this is different. Her appreciation of him is different.

It is delightful and sumptuous and heady and he thinks he will never get enough. Her gaze is ambrosial and he wants to bask in it forever.

He also wants to return the favor.

So when she bids him come to her, it is easy for him to ask it; he is too far gone now to care.

"Will you — can you open your legs for me, love?"

He can hear her moan and he echoes it as she bends her knees, spreads herself just slightly there and she is even more beautiful than he remembered.

He does not keep her waiting.

Careful not to brush his straining cock against the smooth fabric of the covers, he crawls toward her, wastes no time catching her behind one knee and pressing her open further.

Memories flood his mind of the times he's been allowed this treat before and his mouth begins to water.

He looks up over her body to ask.

"May I?" and she hardly nods before his lips are on her soft and slow.

He kisses her there with languid passion, lets his lips work her over, his tongue tease between her folds and up over that little bundle that he knows causes —

"God!"

He smiles.

He works his lips against her, savoring each bit of her as he catalogues her with his tongue, sucks her into his mouth then laps at her with long, pressing strokes of his broad tongue.

She is moaning in time with his ministrations now, rocking her hips and he draws back, kissing her lightly, again and again, moving to the insides of her thighs and back up again to the rise of her lovely hips.

Then he is sliding up to play at her breasts, to memorize the beauty of her there and relish the taste of her wetness combined with the slick salt of her skin, and he is using his tongue and thumb in tandem against her when he feels her hand brushing against him through his shorts and he has to pull away, slam his eyes shut and stop contact with her immediately, because he knows he is going to come, can feel it pulsing and building, spiraling tighter and causing his hips to buck.

He breathes a few long breaths and when he opens his eyes she is alternately smiling and biting her lip as he rocks just gently against her.

He bends to kiss her nipple again, runs his teeth over the tip of her a few times, his hand skimming the glorious curves of her and landing on her knee, pushing her open again so that he might just look at her, see her wetness there.

When he does, breathes long and slow and gazes at her with his thumb just stroking her thigh, she slips her fingers beneath his waistband, snags them and snaps them against his skin and he gets the message and releases her just long enough to push them down, off.

His cock springs free and he seizes her wrist just before he makes contact and brings her hand to his lips to kiss her fingertips, to nip and suckle at them, whispering "I can't," again and again, making sure she understands.

When their eyes meet and she nods, he gives her fingers another lick with the tip of his tongue before setting them to her nipple, and using their fingers together to pinch her there, to flicker and press and circle lightly until he leaves her hand working herself, so that he might grasp her thigh again, pick it up.

She is glistening, so wet she's dampened the sheets and he wants, he wants.

He can see her muscles moving there, clenching, twitching against nothing and feels his own sex surge in response and he doesn't realize he's speaking until she's answering him.

"You can have me, Charlie. Have me, please."

He recalls saying something similar, recalls the few times they've done this now, the way they offer again and again, and leaning down, he presses a kiss to her lips, uses the hand on her thigh to hold her open and poises himself there at her entrance.

He is telling her over and over again that this is their resolution, that he loves her and he is affirming him, repeating him, declaring her own love.

And he can feel their heartbeats together now where they are nearly joined and he could almost scream, instead, he presses her thigh further, hears her moan as her calf lands on his shoulder and with her beautifully open beneath him, he asks her one last time the best he can.

"Yes?"

"Yes, yes!"

Before her second yes leaves her lips he is sinking into her and the relief floods him like a river. He is home. He is home and he is with her and inside her and he nearly cannot tell where his body begins and hers ends and that suits him fine because he wants to spend the rest of their lives living as closely as two people can.

"Elsie, I don't think I can — "

He tries to warn her, can already feel himself losing the battle with his hips to thrust, to stroke and pound and plunge into her.

"Don't, don't."

He clenches his fist in the pillow near her hair and he knows it probably isn't, but he has to be sure…

"Don't?"

"Don't stop, mo ghaol, God, please. Don't hold back. Ye won't break me. Tha gaol agam ort."

Her brogue is thick and that does it.

He draws back and thrusts into her hard, powerfully, watches as wisps of her hair stick to the perspiration on her forehead, the way she is biting her lip, her eyes tightly closed.

"Elsie," he says and when their eyes meet he thrusts into her even harder, maintaining his slow pace.

She is so slick and tight and warm against him and it is everything, everything, she is like everything and nothing he's ever had or deserved and he can't think at all when she is undulating beneath him, meeting his thrusts to take him deeper.

"I love you," he says, watching her and he thrills to know her inner muscles clench when he says it, revels in the way she bites her lip before pouting it out at him, saying it back.

"Tha gaol agam ort," she says and he recognizes the smooth lilt of it, the dips and curves of her mouth as she says it and he realizes — it hits him with white-hot certainty that she's said this before while they were making love, and the understanding that he has never, not once, been alone in their love makes him tilt her toward him, push against her and grind so that he knows he is teasing her nub as he sinks into her again and again, buries himself in her heat and with his other hand finds hers so they can lace their fingers on the pillow.

He worries a bit about her wrist, but when her face contorts it does not seem to be in pain.

He bends to lick her nipple, to flick against the other with his fingers.

"I — I'm going — "

And he can feel it building in him too. He has been so very ready and her body is driving him further, taking him to the brink of madness.

"Yes, love. Yes," he says, and he can feel her hand on his chest, pulling at his chest hair, running over his pebbled nipples.

She is making muffled little sounds, moans and sighs and he is driving deeper, staying as slow as he can, hoping to take them both over like this.

He pushes his shoulder further against her thigh, spreads her wider and does a little twist with his hips as he thrusts into her and she gasps, flutters around him and he picks up his pace just lightly until she is shattering over him, moaning, gasping, calling out to him as she looks into his eyes the best she can when she is losing herself to this pleasure, and the sight takes him over the edge, too.

He thrusts deeply once, twice more before he is spasming, emptying himself into her hard and long and he feels as if it will never end — the pleasure of her body drawing his seed from him, milking him makes him shudder. With a final groan, he rolls them deftly, keeping himself buried inside her and draws her to his chest.

Her legs astride his hips, he runs his hands up and down her body, touches her hair and kisses her brow again and again, cuddles her close.

"I love you," he whispers and smiles when she whispers it back, first in English and then in Gaelic.

"Tha gaol agam ort."


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have much to say about this other than it's finally over. I am thankful to those of you who have been supportive and receptive. This was my first foray into a multi-chapter fic, and after everything, I'm not sure what my future is with fic or fandom, but I appreciate those who have been welcoming and kind as I believe you are what the fandom is really about. This story has been quite a labor and took quite a lot of courage to continue, so I am very grateful to those of you committed to being supportive and lovely.
> 
> I owe a particularly large debt of gratitude to the lovely Dee and Kouw, without whom I have truly no idea where I'd be. Thank you for being kind - for being there during every cry and every moment of frustration and especially during times of happy, cheeky, fun. You two are the best of the best.
> 
> This starts NSFW and fades into a sweet goodbye from my Chelsie to you who have stuck around to see the end.

Elsie pants against the hollow of his throat as she comes down. She can feel herself still clenching lightly against him, and when his cock twitches inside of her, she can't stop herself from grinding against him gently, pressing her hips into his to keep him right there, to prolong this bliss.

She should feel ashamed. She does. She can feel it heavy somewhere deep in her chest, but she can't be bothered to examine it just now, not when he has lavished this delicious, slow pleasure on her and she is still reeling.

Charlie's hands are stroking her back, tracing the bumps of her spine with a gentle touch and it does something to relieve a bit of the heaviness, the dark ball of shame lodged in her gut.

He is not angry with her.

She wonders if he will be later, if she should stop his hands. If it is her role, her responsibility to make sure they are respectable, that they don't overindulge.

His touch moves to the sides of her breasts, and her shiver against him causes another twitch of his length within her, a little jerk of his hips against her nub and she bites her lip, uses all of her restraint not to moan aloud.

He is not making her job very easy.

Reluctantly, she presses her hands into the mattress on either side of his head and moves so that she can peer down at him.

She can't help but smile.

He is so handsome. His unruly curls, dark brows and grey eyes, and the way he is looking at her softly, with so much affection. It makes her heart ache, and she longs to kiss him, to trace the line of his strong nose to his soft lips.

When she remembers she has no reason to hold back, relief swells in her chest and she can't resist leaning forward, kissing the tip of his nose and then his lips, first the top and then the bottom.

She is surprised by his groan when she pulls away.

"Whatever's the matter?"

His hand finds her cheek, draws her lips to his once more for a more languid joining, lazy and soft and, shamefully, beginning to make her throb again as he explores her so gently.

"Charles," she manages, breathless, between kisses.

"Hmm?" is his reply, but it is just this side of a moan, a low growl against her lips.

She swallows hard when his attentions move to her jaw and she's forced to slide up his body just a bit, jostling them there and causing her to clench against him again.

This time his response is a definite moan.

"Charlie," she tries again, gasps when he nips the tender skin of her neck over and over, soothing it with gentle kisses now and then. "Should— should we be doing this?"

He stops then, tucks his chin and looks at her.

"Is—that what you want?"

Dazed, she can't understand what he's asking.

"Is what what I want?"

She wrinkles her brow, uncertain she's made sense, trying to ignore the hot guilt in her belly as she wishes they could not speak at all.

He sighs deeply, brings his hands to touch her cheeks again and then drops them.

"I had hoped we could avoid this."

And her heart is pounding now. Avoid what? Is he about to tell her that she has pushed them too far, wanted too much, over-indulged and acted irresponsibly and shamelessly, or perhaps—

"Elsie," he says, and his voice is so deep and calm it both stills her instantly and makes her wish to press against him where they are still,  _god_ , still joined.

"Yes?"

"I hope very much not to offend you, but I think there are matters that we should, ah, perhaps discuss, even if only because of my own lack of knowledge."

She touches his cheek, feels the urge to settle against him, but resists it in favour of staring into his dark eyes.

"Alright."

He sighs deeply and she wonders if she should move off of him, if this in itself isn't entirely inappropriate, but his hands settle on her hips and trace invisible patterns that occasionally make her want to squeeze around him. She resists as best she can, focuses entirely on his words.

"Elsie, I — I've never been anyone's husband."

It is not what she expected, but it is lovely. She kisses his brow.

"I know, Charlie."

He looks into her eyes and then away, at her shoulder, her neck.

"And I know— I know you've been a wife..."

Ice shoots through her core at the thought that he could ever compare what she was to Joe to all the things she wants to be to him, with him. And she knows she should hold back, that she shouldn't say anything, that she should be polite and deferential, but he must know this, she can't let him think anything other than the truth about this. Can't found her marriage on a lie.

"In a sense, yes, but Charlie, I meant what I said all those months ago. It was never — what I had with Joe was a friendship, a shared past, and it's nothing at all like what I have with you. I—"

Why is this so hard when she is not coming over him, when he is not inside her driving her over the edge with every thrust?

"I love you very much. As a friend, a best friend, and as much, much more. I — I have been a wife before, yes, but I have never felt like one until this afternoon."

She wipes the silvery tears from his cheekbones as they fall and she can't believe she's put them there, can't believe she's said what she's said, has laid herself bare in this other, newer, more difficult way.

"I suppose then," he breathes, "this is perhaps new for both of us, in a way."

When she nods, he brings his hand to the back of her neck and coaxes her down for another kiss, and then one more, and one to the tip of her nose.

When they break their embrace, he is no longer crying and she settles on his chest, still loves the feel of him inside her, and traces her own patterns through his chest hair, brushes over his nipple with her fingertips.

She hears him suck in a breath and is nervous about what comes next, for what he will say.

He does not keep her waiting long.

"I love you too, Elsie. So much it sometimes scares me. The last thing I want is to offend you, to put you off or...do anything untoward."

Her heart clenches. He is about to tell her, about to set their boundaries and explain respectability to her and all while he is still buried to the hilt inside her, while she is still open and waiting and slick with their joining.

The heaviness in her stomach moves to her chest and she feels, absurdly, as if she could cry.

"And," he continues, "that's why I think we should discuss how we will...go about this."

She holds her breath, scratches her nails against him in an anxious little move, a desperation to be closer, to hold him, for him not to push her away.

"I should like...that is, I think it would be most appropriate for me to defer to you as to how...often we might...do these sorts of things."

Her brow wrinkles even as she feels him touch her hair, pat her head lightly.

_These sorts of things?_

It's agony. This tiptoeing, this carefully crafted politeness. It's so absurdly heavy on top of the weight she already carries and she feels just about ready to crack, to toss it all, throw it to the wind.

They are getting nothing done this way, and she is nothing if not efficient.

Still, to honour, to obey. A credit to his name.

She tries.

"I—" she clears her throat, begins to shift, she doesn't feel he can be inside her for this discussion. "I haven't given it much thought."

_Lie_.

She bites her lip, sits up and begins to...she can't think of a more appropriate word than  _dismount_  him, and when she does, she is surprised at his strangled moan and the state of him, half-hard already against his thigh.

She looks up at him in shock.

"I'm―" he starts, his eyes meeting hers only briefly before sliding away. His hand twitches and she wonders if he is going to turn, to move and cover himself from her view and she doesn't know for sure what she is feeling, but she knows she doesn't want  _that_.

"I'm sorry, Elsie." he says, "I didn't mean ― I'm sorry."

His voice is a whisper, and she wishes very much she knew what he was sorry  _for_ , because then perhaps she could help, could do anything other than look at him there and wish that he wasn't sorry, that he would touch her again.

Her thoughts are racing and she can do nothing but stare, can't look away, can't school her features to hide her shock.

Part of her is so relieved, incredibly pleased that this is just as difficult for him as it is for her, but the other part of her is terrified by his quiet, fervent apologies, terrified that she has let him down by allowing him to get to this state again, for tempting him and making this so difficult for them both.

She looks down at him, at herself, at the state of them both. She can still see the tears in his eyes, can feel her own heart pounding against her ribs so hard her hands shake.

It won't do.

"Charlie?" she ventures, relieved when his eyes meet hers. "I'm sorry if I have made this...uncomfortable" she shakes her head. "Inappropriate? I'm sorry, too. I never meant to make things  _awkward_  between us. Or to— to  _lure_  you if you—didn't want to be lured? Perhaps I should do something different? Give you more distance or?"

She looks at him and his eyes seem wild and she's very anxious now, desperate, will just have to come out with it.

"Will you tell me? Tell me how it should be? How I might...please you and be a respectable wife? A credit to you?"

She feels as if her heart is making a steady ascent up her throat as she asks, can hear her own voice tighten and quake, and is only mildly surprised by the thunder in his eyes.

"Mrs. Hughes," he says, harshly, and she's suddenly jolted to attention, alarmed until his voice softens and he addresses her again.

"Elsie, I am the last person in the world you need to tell you about respectability, about being a credit to me. You are already that and so much more. I have been honest in my assertions that I am the happiest and luckiest of men. You have more integrity in your little finger than most people have in their entire bodies. You could never — "

He looks at her helplessly and she stares right back because she also feels helpless, trapped, completely unsure.

"In my eyes, Elsie, you have only ever been honorable, and it is my shame to say that I only raised the matter because I didn't want to offend you with my eagerness to be intimate with you in that way — as often as you'll allow it, as much as an old codger like me can."

She listens to him, slack-jawed until the tears well in her eyes and she is shaking with her relief, with the dark melancholy in her chest crumbling just that bit further.

"Oh, my darling," he says and pulls her down to him again, kisses her hair and strokes her back again and again. "You have never, ever been anything less than honourable and I'm sorry you've ever felt you were. You are more than a credit to me, Elsie, you are a credit to all of those fortunate enough to know you, to work with you, to call you friend or neighbour."

She is still crying, listening to him with half a mind and telling him her fears with the other.

"But Charlie, I want," she sniffles. "I want to be with you, to love you, I want so many—" she casts about, seizes on his own word, "untoward things with you."

He touches the backs of her arms, the swell of her bum and she clenches her eyes against the feeling of herself still wanting, still responding to his touch.

"Elsie, I think it might— I think it would be alright for us to want as much as we...want."

She sits up, wipes her eyes and dries her hand on the quilt. "How can you say that? How can you know?"

He licks his lips, looks her in the eye and holds her gaze.

"I don't. I don't know for sure. As I said, I've never been a husband, but Elsie, surely we've shown enough restraint over the past two decades, surely we held back when it mattered most — when what we did could have gotten us both sacked without reference, could have ruined us—"

"What what about in Scotland? What about there, Charlie, on the table. God, our first time was on a kitchen table that I shared with Joe,  _god_."

He winces at the name and she appreciates it because it means he is feeling a bit of her discomfort, her worry, and for the first time she finds she wants to share it, wants him to help carry.

"Perhaps...that was not our clearest moment, but Elsie, we have been in love, I think, for many years. Is that true?"

She wants to deny it, wants to hide this last bit of shame that she's desired him nearly since she started as head housemaid at Downton, since she laid eyes on his tall, lean frame and dark hair and strong profile.

But he is being so brave, her man, so good and understanding and she can't deny him now, doesn't even want to. She wants to surrender to this, to relax into it, to share with him fully.

"Yes, twenty years or more in my case."

Her voice does not shake and she can't bring herself to regret it one bit as a grin breaks over his features and she can see the tips of his teeth between soft lips.

"For me, too," he says, and she understands his expression because she can feel herself mirror it as her heart bursts with pride and joy and love for him, for them, for how far they've come to say these words, to finally be here as man and wife.

"I think, then," he says, "that it is perhaps excusable that we sometimes do not act entirely proper. Don't you? We have spent years being very good and now...well, now is different. Although I am willing to concede that the table was perhaps not our finest moment, I must confess I don't regret it."

She looks at him, marvels at his gentle words and the love she feels for him. She thinks for a moment, absorbs what he says and wills it to sink in. And she does feel a bit better, a bit more reassured, but she still isn't sure what he's saying.

_It is excusable if we sometimes do not act entirely proper._

_What did that mean?_

"Do you?"

His voice startles her from her thoughts.

"Do I what?"

"Regret it."

She takes in the delicate tilt of his brow, the worry line stitched in the middle and smooths it with her thumb, reveals her greatest sin.

"No, I don't. I think I probably should, but I don't."

"I understand," he says, taking her hand from his hair to kiss her palm, wrap her fingers around his touch. "I'm sorry for where it happened, but not what happened."

Her eyes shoot up.

He's made it so simple.

"Yes," she echoes, breathless, "me too."

He smiles at her — a small, tentative thing.

"Can we agree then?"

She is still sorting through her thoughts, still feeling the shadows in her shift and wane.

"Agree on what?"

He tugs at her a bit, lets their hands tangle as he hugs her.

"Agree that we might be less than entirely proper when the mood strikes."

She can't help but giggle a little at how hopeful he sounds, how soft and suggestive and very unlike her strict, staunch Mr. Carson.

She supposes everyone has their vices.

Her nerves still feel heightened, she is not entirely sure it is right, but it is what she wants and what he wants and she can think of no more reasons to deny them this.

"I suppose we have a right to enjoy our autumn years," she says and loves the way he moves against her when he chuckles, tickles his fingers along her side.

When he tilts her head up, she kisses him three times in quick succession, allows herself a moment to relax in his arms, feel him against her, before beginning to untangle herself, to move from off his chest and onto her own side of the bed and then up toward the washroom.

"Where are you going?"

She looks over her shoulder at him. His eyes are dark, and she loves the way he looks like this: rumpled, bare-chested, those curls falling over his brow. She smiles at him quickly so that she can turn away before she loses her nerve. She speaks to him over her shoulder as she gathers her things, a few misplaced creams, her tooth powder, and dressing gown from her trunk.

"I do believe we decided I'd have free use of the washroom after you?"

"Yes, but," he says and she can't help biting her lip, schools her features before looking at him again.

"But what?"

His eyes rake over her and his hot gaze alone is enough to stir her, to make her nipples tighten and her sex ache.

"Nothing," he says, and she's only a little disappointed because she really does want to wash up a bit, feels sweaty and sticky and all sorts.

She moves closer to lean over him briefly, kiss his brow.

"Thank you, Charlie," she says, and when he asks her what for, she replies honestly.

The weight is not gone, but she shares it with him now and it is lessened, it frees her enough to enjoy this, then, and she has a feeling it will only get better.

"For everything."

* * *

Elise regards herself in the mirror for a long moment before she moves.

The precious little makeup she had been wearing has been eradicated by their activities, the only trace of it is the smudged lip color she finds beneath her bottom lip.

She scrubs it away with a cloth.

Folded neatly on the little washstand are two garments. The first is her cotton gown ― steady, reliable, wholesome. The second is a gift ― short, satin, frilled ― matching her new corset perfectly.

She eyes the latter and the short, closed drawers it came with.

It wouldn't be proper. She can't help thinking it even after the conversation they've just had.

She should put on her cotton gown.

She should put on her cotton gown and plait her hair and cuddle up to her husband in bed and nothing more.

Except…

Except she can't help remembering the feel of him pressing against her there, hot and hard and how she thinks she very much would have liked to...go again.

And after their talk, his words, what could it harm.

She looks at the satin shift, the drawers.

She is only a bride once, after all.

Well, once when she really feels it.

Mind made up, she splashes the water over her face, soaks the cloth with the rosewater blend she loves and runs it along her cheeks, her neck, down between her breasts and to her sex.

She traces herself delicately there, careful not to delve too deep, and it is all she can do to keep from moaning. She is still slick there, swollen and ready. Biting her lip, she rocks just a little against her pressing fingers, in the way she used to before she had this, before she could have him, touch him ― before she knew with certainty he wanted her.

_As often as you'll allow it_  he'd said.

She isn't sure he knows what he's bargained for, but she is very tired, very exhausted tonight of pretending, of being angry with herself, of punishing them both. She doesn't know how she will feel tomorrow, but tonight she knows what she wants.

She picks up the white satin shift, pulls it over her head and feels the cool smoothness of it pass over her nipples, tight in the cool air, then bends to fetch the drawers.

Closed drawers.

She bites her lip.

There's only one purpose for closed drawers, only one, rather scandalous, message they send to a lover.

Carefully balanced, she pulls the silky material up over her knees, her thighs, feels the way it flutters about her there, just skimming the delicate skin on the backs of her legs, the insides.

She shivers.

If she is going to be untoward, if he is going to accept her at her most wanton, she may as well push the envelope. Test the waters. Live a little.

Looking back in the mirror, Elsie considers whether she should plait her hair or let it be. It will be a wild mess tomorrow either way, she knows.

Well.

She gives herself a small smile in the mirror.

She  _hopes_.

She regards herself as completely as she can in this mirror ― hung too high― and notes the way the neckline of the shift dips, and even when she ties the little ribbon there, presents a keyhole of freckled skin just at the crest of her breasts.

She tilts her head, considering.

He likes her freckles, she thinks, maybe.

She positions the ribbons so they don't cover the gap.

Combing her hair with her fingers, she mirrors his earlier actions and twists it into a thick roll she can place over her shoulder, when her fingers uncurl, she watches the way it fans out immediately, completely obscuring one of her shoulders.

There's nothing to be done about her face, unfortunately. She can't sleep wearing the kohl, the powders and stains that have aided her throughout the day.

But he has seen her like this before ― daily, for several years.

Still, she presses lightly at the lines beneath her eyes, at the corners, pushes against the dips of her cheeks where she's smiled and laughed, smoothes the worry line between her brows.

She sighs.

Perhaps he will let her dim the lights.

She spends one more moment pulling gently at her skin before she gives her cheeks a quick pinch, licks her lips.

There's no use in stopping now, no use in trying to turn back the clock, no use in trying to go any way but forward.

She thinks of him waiting out there for her, in their bed ―  _their bed_. She wonders if he decided to don his pajamas in her absence and momentarily pouts over the loss of watching him dress ― something she wasn't even aware she wanted until this moment.

He will be handsome either way, but she had hoped to be afforded an unobstructed view of his powerful legs, his broad chest, and strong arms that lead down to sturdy hands, large and fit and just enough this side of rugged that she has to clench her thighs to assuage the sudden flash of heat she feels at the thought of them on her body.

God, she hopes he hasn't been wrong about them  _wanting_  as often as they'd like, because she does, very much so, even after he's shattered her world once already this evening, she is ready, so ready for more.

Abandoning all thoughts of her cotton gown, she quickly dons her dressing gown, hung so sweetly behind the door, awaiting her use, and pads back to their room.

Her heart does a funny little skip when she's greeted by the sight of him sitting up in bed beneath the covers, chest bared, his spectacles on, examining a slip of paper.

"What's that then?" she asks, making her way to the bed to sit on its edge and is utterly charmed by the sweet smile that graces his features, the way he reaches for her.

She crawls across the bed, both worried and hoping that her dressing gown is gaping, is offering him what she doesn't feel quite ready to say aloud.

She curls into his side, relishes the feel of the heat of his skin, the coarseness of the hair on his chest beneath her fingers. She knows she should be concentrating, but finds it very difficult not to touch him when he is bared to her like this.

Breathing in the scent of his cologne, she can't resist leaning in to kiss the tender skin of his neck where he is warm and soft and she can feel just the edge of his whiskers.

"Our wedding invitation," he says, and she can hear the pride in his voice. "Just reminding myself it truly happened, that this is our life now."

As sweet as it is, as much as it makes her heart swell, as much as she is trying to pay attention, she is intoxicated by the feel of him, by the contrast of the softness and the light scrape of his whiskers. It is a beautifully delicate part of her strong man and she feels she must kiss, nip, trace him with the tip of her tongue.

The hand he has had resting on her hip clenches and releases and she can hear his sharp intake of breath as she bites softly at him there, tugs at his flesh and then soothes it with gentle swipes of her tongue, little kisses that leave them both panting.

"Elsie," he rumbles, and the deep tenor of it almost makes her groan.

She is feeling wanton, but she is giving into it now, embracing it and the acceptance of it, she finds, makes her all the more desperate for him, for this closeness again and again, always.

Finally, the tensions of the day are melting, and she's talked openly and vulnerably with her husband and all she can think of is how his sensitivity, his kindness, his intelligence, and patience only make her want him urgently.

She tries not to examine it too closely, to let her thoughts run away with her. Instead, she savors the feeling of him turning them, moving so that she is halfway beneath him and he is leaning over her, capturing her mouth in a heated kiss that causes her to moan as his tongue traces her teeth, teases the tip of hers slowly and leisurely, until she feels she actually cannot stand the unhurried, unbearably provocative treatment and for perhaps the first time, allows herself to moan fully, without remorse, and pushes up toward him.

The heaviness of his hand still on her hip keeps her from getting very far, but somehow that only heightens her pleasure, the sweet ache that's building.

One-handed, distracted, she feels him set the invitation aside, pulls away for the barest second to doff his glasses and they land with an undignified clatter in the nightstand that makes her giggle.

"What?" he asks, already nipping at the skin of her throat.

"Nothing," she breathes, her fingers tracing the muscles of the arm he is using to brace himself over her.

And it's true, it is nothing. She is just grateful, so grateful for what they have, for what he's revealed in that swift, absent movement.

He believes what he's said. They are allowed to  _want_.

And  _god_  - his lips at her throat, his big hand on her hip, his teeth nipping a little trail as low as her dressing gown will allow - she  _wants_.

The heat between her thighs is an urgent ache and she dares to be bold now, to take his hand from her hip and slide it to the tie on her robe, watching his eyes as he pulls away slightly to complete the task.

Slowly, the knot loosens, comes undone between his deft fingers, and his skill, along with the knowledge of what she wears beneath her gown, causes her lip to dip between her teeth.

She can tell he has noticed something amiss in the way he pauses, peels back the edges of her robe and gazes down at her with that intense gaze of his, the way he breathes deeply through his nose and she can feel his hot breath against her skin when he exhales.

"Oh, Elsie. God, what— what are you doing to me?"

She worries for a moment, just a moment when she's bared to him in her new set, and she wonders if perhaps she has crossed the line, if this is too far.

But then his fingers are tracing the edge of her neckline and he is speaking, saying such lovely, delicious things.

"Do you wear this always?"

She has to resist scoffing, does not want him to think she is poking fun.

"Not always," she breathes, chooses not to tell him that this is the very first time she's worn it. Let him think she's sometimes dressed this way, gone to bed like this a room away, just out of reach. There's something about it that thrills her knowing that might've bothered him, that he might've been as tortured as she was by the distance between them. Both in this way and others.

"How often?" he asks, his eyes trained on the little bow at her chest and she shrugs just to watch him lick his lips as the shift pulls tight around her.

She can already feel herself dampening her knickers, feel the rush of warmth when he looks at her, runs his hand from the side of her breast to her hip and thumbs the bone there through the satin.

He is brushing against her so slowly, his warm hands somehow both sure and gentle and it's all she can do not to writhe, to push him down and throw her thigh over his waist and—

And it is only when she remembers that even if she did her knickers would prevent access, prevent him from touching her there fully that she gasps, does buck up this time, just a bit.

She can hear his breath increase, feels his fingers dig into the flesh of her upper thigh and bites her lip, cries out a short punctuated noise that makes him stop, stare down into her eyes.

He squeezes her hip again and she whimpers.

"Elsie," he drawls, and she can feel herself pushing against nothing, losing control. She can barely bring herself to respond.

"Hm?"

And it's desperate, high, just shy of a whimper, but she is ready,  _god_ , so ready she is slick and hot and can feel his fingers gripping her flesh, see his eyes dark and flashing, and that  _voice_ , her name in that voice that's commanded such respect, enforced such order and now makes her tremble, come apart beneath his fingers, which she now wishes he would use for something other than digging into the muscles of her thigh, something other than brushing her just where her hip meets her mound.

"Did you wear things like this then? Then at the abbey? Did you?"

She bites her lip.

"And what if I did?"

She can feel him surge up, his hand at her breast, squeezing, grasping, his fingers finding the stiff points of her nipples beneath her shift and tracing with gentle fingers before tweaking in a way that makes her cry out and her hips press up, seeking what's not there.

"I don't think I could stand it, Elsie. Knowing this was a room away from me and I was there, just on the other side, loving you, wanting you, I —"

Her heart skips, and she brings her hand to his shoulder, smooths her palm over his arm and tucks between the tense muscle of his bicep and his ribs, skims along his body until she reaches the edge of the sheet and, after a moment's hesitation, dives beneath it, thrills when she realizes he's completely bare beneath the covers, that he has waited for her.

In a flash of boldness and with a surge of want for this beautiful man, she squeezes, digs her nails into the curve of his ass and loves the way he growls in her ear.

"I want you," he says, and she presses her hips against his, smiles against his cheek. He  _wants_. It thrills her and emboldens her and though her voice feels strained, she manages to say what she feels, what she's always felt.

"You can have me."

The groan he releases tells her all she needs to know, everything she's doubted.

_Have_ her. He's going to  _have her._ She's never wanted anything more in her life, doesn't understand how she can want him more every time they touch.

Which is why she can't help but fuss when he pulls away from her. She tries frantically to follow his body, rises over him and is about to straddle his lap as they've done before, just once, just once but it was so  _so_ good and she could do it again and again, but he catches her about her waist, stills her.

She is just far enough away that she can't press herself against him, can't sink down, can't do anything at all as he regards her with — well, there's no other way to say it —  _hungry_ eyes. And in a fit of absurdity, she thinks being devoured by him is exactly how she'd like to go.

However, she  _would_  very much like to be allowed to touch him again first.

She strains against his grasp, but he doesn't budge.

"Stop fussing, wife. I'm making up for lost time."

He says it with a smirk and she gives him a pathetic scowl in response.

"By delaying us further?" she gripes.

"Patience is a virtue, darling," he says and draws her closer with control so that he might press the briefest, most frustrating kiss she's ever received (not that she's received many) in her life before holding her away from him again and looking at the state of her, drinking her in with dark eyes, but doing  _nothing_.

She isn't sure if she's flattered or annoyed.

His fingers are hot and hard through the slick material of her shift and she wishes now that she'd worn nothing at all, that she'd never left the bed in the first place. She can actually feel herself getting wetter and slicker between her thighs, the way she's pooling in her short knickers, and in desperation, she puts her hands over his, runs her nails over the backs of his hands lightly and tries a new tactic.

"Charlie, it's hard for me to…to make you feel... _good_...from all the way over here."

It's bumbling and stupid, but she's got it out. She'll have to practice, she decides, seducing him with her words. Her own secret project.

To her surprise, he merely hums, flicks his eyes up to hers momentarily before beginning to turn her gently in his palms, urging her to shift until she is between his legs, on her knees with her back to him and suddenly her heart is beating overtime.

She can see them in the mirror like this — herself mostly, but his large hands spanning her waist and the concentration on his brow as he looks her up and down.

She feels another rush of warmth between her legs and fidgets, fusses just a bit.

With one hand he lets go of her waist, and she jumps when she feels his fingers on the back of her thigh, tickling against the edge of her knickers where they stop very high, so scandalously high on her body.

He fingers the frilled edge and then shocks her by grasping her ass in his hand, squeezing and opening and even,  _god, Jesus_ , she may be imagining it, but, Lord help her she thinks he even  _patted_  her there, gave her a light smack and she's ashamed that the thought makes her cry aloud.

"Charles!" she says, and they lock eyes in the mirror where he regards her carefully for a moment before a wicked smile breaks over his features.

"Mrs. Hughes?" he asks, conversationally, as his hand grasps her again, squeezes and pushes and then  _definitely,_ she's sure this time, gives her a light smack and she can't help making a very unladylike sound in response.

She tries to bite her lip, to silence herself, but when he switches hands, does it again on her other side it's all she can do not to turn and take him, take him any way she can, her mouth, her hands, her —and she can't say it— can't believe it's coming to her in this moment, but she can't help but think the words — her  _throbbing cunt._

God, she wants him so badly it hurts.

He doesn't speak, instead uses both hands to grasp her and she can't stop herself, between his words and his hands and the way he'd looked at her earlier, she drops to her hands and knees, her breath shaking, her mind fixes on what he can do, what he  _will_  do to her next.

She's positively dripping, can feel it, and is sure there's a wet spot there where he can see, but she's far past caring, past thinking of anything but him touching her, filling her, bringing her over the edge she's poised on so precariously.

There will be no going back from this, she supposes, no going back from this brazenness, but she doesn't  _care._

She loves the way he groans, the way she can see in the mirror that he is staring at her, grasping her ass and her hips and intermittently giving her light taps until she's arching, pushing back against his hands.

"Elsie can I — can I, please?"

His fingers are on the elastic of her drawers and she is hardly capable of coherent thought.

"Yes," it comes out as a hiss which only lengthens as he tugs, pulls, slides the fabric over the curve of her bum and they both cry out when his fingers trail across her bare skin.

Her knickers are resting in the bend of her knees and she strains against them in an effort to open her legs, show her man exactly where she wants him.

She can do nothing but stare at him in the mirror, watch his expression as he brushes his fingers against her, licks his lips.

"My god, Elsie, you are magnificent."

And ordinarily, she would blush, would scrutinise and deny it, but she's too far gone for that. Just now, she wants to scream at him, wants to beg him to  _fuck_ her then, if she's so wonderful to him, if he wants her so badly, because he is driving her mad with desire, with lust, with her body brought to life, thrumming under his touch.

She's panting hard, watching in the mirror as he spreads her gently, strokes her with a maddeningly light touch that makes her back bow and arch, and then the way he pulls his fingers away, tastes first one and then the other, sucks them into his mouth and she strains against her knickers again, tries to open her thighs wider, but she can't, can only close her eyes, whimper softly.

The motion of the bed makes her eyes open again and she watches as he shifts, moves onto his knees, and then he's looking back at her, locking their gaze in the mirror.

Quietly, keeping his eyes on her, he pulls her up so she is on her knees again, pressed to his chest, then slides his hands up until he can cup her breasts through her shift. He watches her carefully, flickering across her nipples with the tips of his fingers. And every pass of them, every gentle brush against her there through the silky fabric shoots straight to her nub, makes her hips rock and undulate, desperate for friction.

She looks at him desperately, taking in the sight of them together in the mirror.

"Please," she gasps, answering his groaned response with a press of herself against him.

To her surprise, his hand snakes down, disappears under her shift, and with barely a warning, he is entering her with one thick finger.

The suddenness of it combined with the feeling of finally, finally being touched causes her to release a cry, her face contorting and her hips jumping toward his palm.

They can't stay like this long, she knows. They are not young and their knees can only withstand so much abuse, but at this moment it is everything. The feeling of his finger filling her, his palm on her breast, fingers manipulating the tip of her through the satin, his breath on her neck.

Everything.

He is thrusting his finger leisurely, shallowly, and it is not enough. She wants — needs— more.

"Charles, please," she entreats, digs her nails into his forearms.

He nibbles her ear, presses against her, then pulls away entirely.

She feels mad with it, desperate, is about to beg him to please,  _please_ show her how alright it is for them to want, when his fingers return, gliding over her flesh, circling her entrance lightly before barely entering her with two fingers and stilling.

It is almost,  _almost_  everything she wants.

She writhes against him, tries to thrust down over his fingers, but the angle makes it impossible.

"Charlie," she moans, and as she says it, he enters her fully, thrusts his fingers in and out with purpose, grinds his palm against her until she is quaking, contracting around those thick fingers and making little "oh, oh, oh," noises at their reflections in the mirror.

He continues stroking, grinding, playing against her until she can't take it. He withdraws slowly, and she moans long and low, feels she can only fall forward on her hands and meet his eyes in the mirror with a fierce gaze.

She definitely  _wants_. She wants it all and she wants it now.

It's not right, she knows it isn't, it's not proper at all. It is animalistic and barbaric, and if he doesn't take her like this right  _now_  she feels she might weep.

His hesitation is as apparent as his arousal in the dark concern of his eyes, but she can only breathe hard, look at him with the hot desperation she feels.

There is no more room for their guilt, their shame, if they are to conquer this it must be together and it must be in trusting one another.

She trusts him implicitly.

"We can, can't we? We can — like this?"

His hand on her bum again, his hardness pulsing between them.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, god, yes, I want everything, Charlie. I want it all."

She doesn't know what possesses her to tell him her thoughts, but she's glad it has because his hands only glide over her a few more times, brush against her and make her shiver before the tip of his cock is pushing against her entrance, stretching her and filling her inch by inch until she thrusts back and he is fully sheathed within her, causing them both to stifle a cry.

The heat of them together is unbearable and when he starts thrusting so shallowly and slowly again she moans in frustration, addresses his reflection.

"Let go, Charlie, please, I trust you."

"Elsie." is all he says in return before he thrusts against her harder, deeper, his pace still slow and steady.

"Ah—" she can't suppress her strangled moan as she feels him push against her, his thighs meeting hers, his hands on her hips pulling her over him again and again.

In the mirror, she can see his eyes are trained on where they are joined, where he is disappearing within her over and over and she feels herself clench against him, sees the way his eyes close for a moment before opening again.

He is panting, sweating, one hand coming under her to fondle her breasts, pinch her nipples in time with his thrusts.

She moans again and he gives a deep growl, his thrusts speeding up and becoming slightly irregular.

"Yes, yes, my man, mo ghràidh," she says between the little noises she can't control, watching them, the way they are coming together, the way this primal indulgence feels so right, so wonderful, and natural, and delightfully erotic.

"Yes, Elsie, god, my  _wife_ , you are so — so—"

He doesn't finish his thought. The hand not holding her hip sneaks down, traces her, edges perilously close to her nub and she's suddenly never wanted anything more.

Any and everything he'll do to her, with her, she's never wanted more.

Rocking back, thrusting against him fast and hard, she grinds herself both onto his cock and into his hand which rests lightly over her.

Over and over she dips and twists and thrusts, squeezes her internal muscles against him and bucks into his hand and finally, finally, a fingertip extends to tease against her nub and then she is shattering around him, screaming, squeezing, bucking and writhing and within a few moments he is coming too, groaning loud and long and she can feel his seed being released within her.

She squeezes her inner muscles, drops to her forearms and gives a sated little whimper-sigh to the covers.

Slowly, his hand slides up, over her damp lower back and under her shift and pulls it over her head before drawing her close, curling around her and pulling her with him back to the head of the bed, nestling her close and arranging the crumpled covers over them.

* * *

When they regain their senses, he looks at her with a sleepy smile that she returns and they chuckle, laugh. They are okay. It was wonderful and they are okay and they are free to lie there together, tangled and sated, free press against one another with not a barrier between them.

And they do for some time. He plays with her hair, she strokes his chest.

She begins to shift, looks up at him and gives him a little kiss, wonders how she might convey what they haven't said.

They cant sleep like this — a damp tangled mess.

"We should—"

She is cut off by his lips on hers, soft and warm. She smiles into the kiss, her heart swells and clenches.

"Yes," he says, kissing her again. "We should."

Their continued kissing, their cuddling, and petting reveals that neither is eager to leave the other, and it stirs up a warmth in both their bellies to think it. To know their affection is returned and returned.

His fingers tickle the curve of her bum, her lips touch the hollow of his throat.

"We have to clean up, Charlie," she says, finally.

"I know," he says, trailing his fingers up her spine, playing in her hair for a moment more before he begins to turn and shift and she is jolted into action too.

They untangle themselves with great effort and lead each other to the washroom.

She watches as he fills the sink with hot water, leans around him, against his back and adds a drop of her rose concoction.

He loves it, loves the way it fills the room, his senses.

He takes one of his flannels —worn and not worthy of her, but what he has available — and he dips it in the water.

When he turns to her, he cups his hand beneath the dripping cloth and regards her seriously. He hesitates only a moment before beginning his work. He runs it over her body, over the freckles on her shoulders and down between her perfect breasts, brushing against the rosy tips.

She tries to remain still as he dips the cloth again, rewets it and slides it across her hips, the dip of her navel, then down between her legs where cleans her with the gentlest and lightest of motions while pressing gentle kisses to her temple, her shoulders, the impossibly soft skin of her neck.

He loves the way her nails scrape along his chest as he works, the way she's kissing him back, nuzzling into his breastbone and breathing him in.

When he is playing more than he is working, she takes the cloth, unwinds it from his fingers and soaks it in the hot water. Soaks it and wrings it and soaks it again before running it along his chest, through the silver hair there and lightly over his nipples, fascinated by the way the cool air on his damp skin makes them tighten.

They take their time, invest themselves fully in this simple service, this luxury they've never been allowed: to touch, to feel, to explore fully what has been denied to them for so long.

It is bliss.

She runs the thin flannel along his sex, views it this way, smiles at the way it seems less...angry to her in this state, but how it still makes his breath catch for her to touch him there.

She pays careful attention to his powerful thighs, kneels and bends to kiss his knees where she knows they ache.

He thinks he's never been cared for so thoroughly as she stands with the aid of his hand, resoaks the cloth and stretches up again, runs it from his shoulders to his fingers where she caresses each one, runs the cloth along and between each digit.

He has never considered himself clumsy really, not with the job he's had and the service he's provided, but with her, he feels it. She is so delicate and beautiful and elegant he trembles, breaks with every touch. He can't believe his luck.

His wife. She is his wife.

Her feelings are similar as she watches the stroke of the white cloth over his dexterous fingers, over these massive, strong hands she's seen serve dukes and dowagers and now — she blushes — now her.

She abandons the cloth entirely to run her fingertips along his hand, to thread their fingers together and squeeze against him, palm to palm. A touch in some ways more intimate than all they've shared —before tonight.

_Before_  — before things went another way, before when their love, their want, was swept away, hidden, tramped down between them and only surfaced on those rare occasions when they would brush in the hall, when he'd look too long or she'd push too far and they'd be forced to see, to look long and hard at what bubbled there between them and then let it go anyway. To feel the heat of the fire before snuffing it out. To see their love there ready to bloom and force it away, cut it off, tamp it down because it was not allowed.

They were so cruel then — to themselves and one another — in the name of control, propriety, impeccable service.

Of course — she kisses his knuckles where they sit between hers, his tan skin against her freckles — they have not been so successful with maintaining their control as of late and as for their service — well, they are perfecting new forms of that at every opportunity, it seems.

She feels a twinge of guilt but pushes it away. It no longer matters. They are allowed now. They've got there in the end.

She smiles up at him and he does not hesitate in telling her she is beautiful.

She rests her head against his chest, listens to his beating heart and returns the sentiment.

In bed they press together, his front to her back, and remain like that for just a while, talking.

Elsie tells him that Glenna has said her Maggie would like to buy Joe's farm, Elsie's farm now, and run it with her husband, their little one on the way. If she was amenable to the idea.

She waits for him to speak.

He looks down at her pale skin, the goose flesh she's getting in the cool air and pulls the covers tighter as he strokes her arm.

When he does speak, it is simple. He leaves it up to her, says he will follow her lead, and that makes her smile because it's such a change.

Not that Mr. Carson should follow her lead, of course, but that Charles should admit to it.

She tells him she'd still like to spend some time in Scotland, near Glenna and Becky, suggests summers and he easily agrees, kissing the crown of her head.

Charles smiles against her hair, tells her he's found that he quite enjoys summers in Scotland.

They can buy a property there, he says, if she wants. If it would make her happy. He's some money set aside and he tells her now what he's known for years: that he wants to spend it on her, on them, on the rest of their lives together.

When she is silent, overcome, he speaks again.

"We don't have to stay  _here_ , either, Elsie, if you don't fancy it."

He tells her this and is surprised by his own sincerity, the honesty of the idea. How much it does not bother him at all to think of leaving this place, as long as he is leaving it with her.

He kisses her hair again, breathes in her scent and watches the delicate blooms of his roses as they press against the bedroom window — their bedroom window.

He feels he has all he needs in the circle of his arms, in the delicate hand that traces the muscles of his forearm, in the calf that winds back between his knees and the dainty ankle that curls around his calf as best it can.

She stays silent, strokes his skin and rubs her leg between his, relishing the rough coarseness of his hair against her skin.

She considers Downton, what it means, what it doesn't.

She hadn't anticipated wanting to stay put, but Beryl is here. Beryl and Anna and Daisy and it's true that it's odd to be here now, with she and Charles both retired. Downton has always been a place of work and toil and crises. It is difficult to think of it as much else.

Then again, it is a pretty place, milder than Scotland in the winter, and she thinks perhaps it would be nice to enjoy it now, to surround themselves with a familiarity that is also entirely new.

She tells him she doesn't mind it here, but that they can speak of it more, if he wants. They can discuss it when her eyes aren't so heavy, his body so warm and solid against her, lulling her to sleep.

"We have all the time in the world, Charlie. The rest of our lives," she breathes, turns in his arms, untangles herself before winding back into him, her head on his chest, her thigh slotted carefully between his.

He shifts to accommodate her and loves the way they fit together in every way, the way her body perfectly molds to his, as much as she cherishes the way their skin can now press and glide and touch with ease, the way his grip is strong and sure.

Neither thinks they would like to move ever again.

"I love you," she whispers into his chest, lifts her head and he delights in knowing that she is asking him for a kiss, in knowing it is something he can eagerly give, and with ease.

She snuggles against him further, adorably, presses as close as she possibly can, and through the window the silvery starlight illuminates them both, the slopes and angles of them pressed, fitted together finally and perfectly — glints off the ring on her finger as it lays across his chest.

She feels warm against him and when she squeezes him sleepily and he squeezes back, she knows what it means now to feel this way. To feel warm and fluttery and a little less scared. It means love. It means them together, enjoying one another. It means talking in the morning, stumbling through breakfast together, kissing and cuddling and talking and fighting.

Just as they've always done.

It means as much for him. It means hands held close and sparkling eyes, gentle smirks and biting remarks, providing for her in every way he can. Learning from each other and forging ahead. If the future is coming, in all its unpredictability and uncertainty, he is glad it is her with whom he faces it, hand in hand.

Just as they've always done.

It means love beneath the bright stars, white-hot, burning, just like them, for as long as god and luck allow.

"I love you," he whispers back, and bathed in the silver-blue light of the stars, they fall asleep entwined.

_fin._


End file.
